Hypocrisy
by Sachita
Summary: How could she sit there, looking at all the innocent children she had sworn to protect, when she belonged to the guilty ones? How could she accuse others when she should be accused? And how could she have ever been so stupid to fall for one Tom Riddle?
1. Prologue

_Hi! Minerva/Tom has always been a pairing, that has fascinated and intrigued me. However, this is my first attempt at a multi-chaptered story about them, so I am quite nervous about it all. I do hope, some of you like it though...and please do tell me, what you think of it so far. More is to come soon. It's based on both the books and the films and the prologue takes place at the beginning of the sixth movie, when Dumbledore gives his speech. Have you noticed Minerva looking a little distracted in the background? I have, and this what came out of it. English is not my first language, so I am sorry for typos, grammatical mistakes and the like. If they are so bad that they make you scream in front of your computer, then please tell me (= Ok, but I'll stop rambling now. Hope you enjoy! -Greetings, Sachita_

_Disclaimer: Harry Potter is owned by J.K. Rowling. No copyright infringement intended._

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**Hypocrisy **

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**_Prologue_**

_Hogwarts, 1996_**  
**

***

"His name was Tom Riddle."

Gasps and whispers could be heard- a silent look of shock was on most of the faces, as the young witches and wizards of Hogwarts digested that information.

Minerva McGonagall felt a flood of heat come to her face at the mention of that name, whether it was out of fear or something else entirely she couldn't have said. Oddly disconcerted she lowered her eyes and bit her upper lip in a feeling of sudden, burning shame. Fear, yes, it was only logical for it to be there. Fear was only to be expected at the mention of the name Riddle, for it was said in one breath with another name, one that few dared to say out loud- "Voldemort," she whispered, and even though it had been a quiet, nearly inaudible whisper, slight gasps came from her right and her left. She ignored them. Tom Riddle- Voldemort…the same, wasn't it?

The answer came from deep within, from the deepest recesses of her soul, where she herself rarely ventured, except in her dreams, that is. And it was that answer, which made the colour rise to her cheeks in a feeling of both fear and profound shame…No, it wasn't the same. Tom Riddle was an altogether different entity from Lord Voldemort. And she…Minerva McGonagall, stern Head of the House Gryffindor, strict Professor McGonagall…she longed for him. For the manifestation of evil itself. She did not have the heart to stay any longer, couldn't stand the gazes of the innocent children, when she herself was one of the guilty ones, for she had loved and that was her fault alone. Had loved… Only moments after the end of Albus's speech, she got up and strode away purposely, her dignity being the only thing to keep her from running. Yes, she had loved. Had loved him. Tom. Tom Riddle.

Yes, Tom Riddle, that was what his name had been. Only Tom to her, though. She heard only the echo of her own heartbeat in her ears and the sound of her quick steps, as she rounded a corner. Her robes swished on the ground after her and she kept on walking. Whereto? She couldn't have said, only knew that she had to look purposeful. Otherwise someone might ask her questions, stop her to talk to her and she knew that she couldn't bear to look anyone in the eye right now. Not now, when flashes of dark hair, pale skin and eyes the colour of the sea on a cloudy day assaulted her wherever she turned. There he leaned casually against a wall, hands in his pockets, regarding her with an inscrutable look. Here, he sat on a window sill, waiting for her and smiling that irresistible smile, when she finally arrived. Had finally arrived, for it had been long ago, and he was not here now. Minerva forced herself to calm down and to quieten the treacherous part of her, which cried out in joy at the prospect of him really sitting there, in flesh and blood. He was the enemy. Minerva paused for a moment.

What a two-faced, deceitful woman you are, a quiet inward voice whispered. Remember Ginevra Weasley? Of course she did remember the youngest Weasley's first year at Hogwarts, remembered not being able to protect one of her Gryffindor cubs from evil itself and remembered, with a feeling of nausea and shame, being envious of Ginny for having the chance to meet him. Of course she had banished the thought out of her head immediately, but when she had stood in the Headmaster's office that day, and when she had seen the diary lying there, she had itched to run her fingers alongside the damaged cover, feel the withered parchment that his finger had touched…A warning glance from Albus had made her come to her senses quickly. A sensible man, Albus.

The remote part of the castle where her feet carried her to was deserted. It always was, it always had been as long as she could remember. Her earliest memory of that deserted part included this very hallway, where she was standing now. However, that niche over there had been sprinkled with flowers that day and she had worn one in her hair, while waiting for him: a red rose intermingling with black tresses. Tom had plucked it from her hair, throwing it up playfully and daring her to watch, as he let it dance in circles in the sun-dusted air. A quick flick of his wand had ended the spectacle though, and Minerva had only been able to watch in shock, as the rose fell to the floor, withered and died. She had demanded angrily, why he had done that. Tom had smiled one of his charming smiles and he had conjured another rose out of thin air, this one much redder than the first one, much bigger and much more beautiful. Minerva had accepted it warily and he had put it back into her hair. It had been nothing disastrous or terrible, yet Minerva had only years later realised, that this had been his way of putting a mark on her. Marking her his-and yet, he hadn't even had to do that. She had been his all along.

Kisses had followed after that rose. Kisses, delivered so hot and burning, completely unlike the ice in his eyes. He had trailed kisses over her bared throat, caressed her pale cheeks…Minerva shuddered as she stood there, one hand on her cheek, the other extended as if to keep the memories at bay.

She gasped and quickly withdrew her hand, feeling the skin of her face. It was wrinkly, like old parchment preserved over too many years. It had been so long, so long. Fifty years, since she had last seen his face, heard his laugh, sat opposite of him in the library and watched him studying. What had happened to them? What had happened to what they used to have? The answer was there as clearly as if it had been shouted out into the air. Tom Riddle –Lord Voldemort. The very same. He had killed, murdered, tortured. He had let others bleed, let others suffer, let others kill for him. She longed for a murderer. She longed to hear a murderer's laughter. Who the hell was she? Surely not Minerva McGonagall, strong Head of the House Gryffindor, a member of the Order of the Phoenix, fighting against the manifestation of evil itself? No, she decided, she was just a gullible hypocrite.

"Merlin, Tom," she sighed and slowly sunk to her knees. "Why?"

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_tbc..._

_so, what do you think?_


	2. 1937

_Thank you very much for your reviews, **tartan-angel** and **Luanna255**! I hope you like this chapter as well. The next one will be longer.  
_

_-Sachita_

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**Chapter One **

**Hogwarts, 1937**

"Ex-extremist movements increase all over Europe. It's now September 1937, four years after the rise of the right-wing extremists in Germany and twelve years after Mussolini's rise in Italy, so our Central Europe corres-correspondent Thomas Wilkins believes, that it is safe to say that neither dictatorship will waver. The situation in Russia is…"

"Min! Minerva! Stop that!" The tall Second Year let her paper sink and glared at the girl, who had spoken, a freckled red-head with glasses. "What is it, Elma?" she asked in irritation.

"No-one wants to hear it." Elma nodded to the paper. "Who cares what is going on in Muggle Europe anyway?"

"You should care!" Minerva's incredulous voice rose in pitch.

"Why?" Justin Miller, a pustular boy of thirteen, raised an eyebrow. "We do not live among them. We do not care about them. Why should we concern ourselves with the Muggles?"

Minerva was red-faced and threw her long braid impatiently over her shoulder. "You will come off of your high horse, Justin Miller, just wait," she said angrily. "You should concern yourselves with this because bombs don't tend to differentiate between wizard and muggle."

She received only silence and white-faced stares as an answer, but before she could continue, the gravelly voice of Headmaster Dippet echoed through the Great Hall. "Everyone fall silent, while our newcomers are sorted."

Minerva turned away from the accusing stares of her classmates and looked to the front. The first years looked all the same to her, small and nervous. She sometimes tended to forget that she had been in the same position only a year before. "Old Minnie Mouse," the boys whispered about her behind their hands. She always pretended to be indifferent, but inside, eleven-year-old Minerva was hurt.

The first years didn't look at the faces of the older students, all but one. He was a small boy with neatly-parted black hair, somewhat ill-fitting robes and an intense blue stare, that was intently fixed on Minerva, who tried her best to hold it. She had never been one to back down, but the strange force of the boy's stare both confused and frightened her-

"Riddle, Tom!"

-until he broke the stare and walked to the front. Minerva hated the immense feeling of relief that flooded up in her. The Speaking Hat had barely touched the boy's dark head, when it already shouted:

"SLYTHERIN!"

Minerva involuntarily flinched as her eyes wandered over to the green-and-silver-decorated table. The Serpents. The Snakes. There was an unspoken rule for Gryffindors not to like Slytherins, and vice-versa. Minerva hated how these snakes valued people only for their blood status, not for their achievements or their character.

But wasn't she forgetting something? A cold feeling in the pit of her stomach, she recalled the words of the Sorting Hat a year prior. "Slytherin…," it had hissed. "Oh yes, it would be an option. Ambition…it is there aplenty, Minerva McGonagall. You want to succeed, you want to be the best….But no," the hat had continued, "there is also courage and the fierce determination to help your friends. Then, I daresay, it shall be: GRYFFINDOR!" The last part it had roared out into the Great Hall and Minerva had slipped off the chair with shaking knees, barely making it to the Gryffindor table before collapsing at one of the empty places. And, like today, her eyes had wandered over to the Slytherin table…

Minerva pushed her food around on her plate and finally got up. "I am not hungry," she told Elma, who only shrugged, "if you'd excuse me."

Later that day she was crossing a corridor on her way to Gryffindor Tower, when a voice called out: "Excuse me."

She turned around slowly and was suddenly face-to-face with the First Year from the Great Hall, and wincing, she stepped back in surprise and shock. The boy slowly smiled at her.

"I am sorry," he said politely, "I did not wish to startle you." There was a sense of wrongness, which Minerva couldn't exactly place. Maybe it had something to do with the cultivated smoothness of the boy's voice, although he was even a year younger than her or with the uncannily attentive look in his blue eyes. After all, he was only a child, wasn't he?

"Yes?" She was annoyed that her voice came out as a croak and cleared her throat, throwing her braid over her shoulder. "Yes?"

"I got lost," the boy said with that silky voice. "I was wondering whether you could help me."

"Slytherin, right?" Minerva asked briskly. "Follow me." She didn't expect an answer, hadn't really wanted an answer, but nevertheless she got an answer. "That's right," he said and turning around, she had the disconcerting feeling that he was mocking her, though he was carefully maintaining a blank façade.

"Come along then," she mumbled and hurried down the steps, the desire to get rid of him making her go faster. Nevertheless she dreaded going down to the Slytherin Dungeon. Gryffindor Tower was a lofty place by comparison. When they had arrived outside the Dungeon, or at least where Minerva saw Slytherin Students enter seemingly into the Wall, she stopped.

"Here you are," she said.

"Thank you," he replied, and again she was helplessly drawn to his eyes. She was confused, quite irritated and still there was a multitude of feelings swirling around in her head that she couldn't have explained even if asked.

"I am Tom Riddle," the boy said suddenly. "I'll be eleven soon."

"Minerva McGonagall," she managed. "Eleven."

"I guess I'll see you around," he commented finally, giving her another one of his smiles. The ease with which he made his way to the Slytherin Dungeon however, told her that he probably hadn't needed her help at all. He had just sought her out and asked for her help because- yes, why because? She decided that he had wanted to annoy her. Well, he had definitely succeeded.

"Bloody stupid Slytherins," she muttered, Scottish accent coming to the fore. Minerva hastily made her way up to Gryffindor Tower, breathing a sigh of relief, when she saw the daylight again. Slytherins were Idiots, that little episode just proved it again. And yet she could not help but think of a raven-haired boy with earnest blue eyes. Tom Riddle. Tom.

The next time Minerva met Tom Riddle, it was close to the end of the school year . Her birthday had been in October and so she was now a respectable Twelve-Year-old and looking forward to being a Third Year and she was studying hard in preparation for it already. The train back to London was leaving soon, and full of regret, Minerva walked once again out to the grounds to catch a last look at the magnificent countryside that she wouldn't see for a whole summer.

Gravel crunched under her dirty shoes and she frowned at them. It was a rainy summer, full of mud and wetness, yet Minerva liked this weather. She had always loved this weather above all others; for her it was neither sunshine, nor snow, nor rain, but rather this impenetrable mist hanging over the lake and the surrounding dark forests. A contradiction that she could not help but chuckle at, for she liked this weather but hated dirt with a passion, even though both came hand in hand. The air was clean, but cold, and the sky was grey. She breathed in deeply and smiled fleetingly. What a wonderful day.

She walked on to the edge of the lake and then she saw that she was not alone. A small, dark-haired boy was sitting in the mud with no care for cleanliness and he was throwing pebbles into the lake. Minerva watched for a moment, how they sailed out over the water and finally dropped, , splashing clear water all about. It was Tom. Tom Riddle.

This time, however, he seemed to be less in control of his surroundings and the impression he gave off seemed to be lacking his usual grace that he had emanated in the hallways whenever she had seen him. Maybe that was why she chose to sit down next to him.

"Minerva," he acknowledged her flatly.

"Tom," she retorted in a similar tone.

"Shouldn't you be on your way to the train by now?" he sneered.

"Shouldn't you?" she shot back acidly.

To her surprise, he smiled in wry amusement. It was an odd expression on the face of an eleven-year-old, but Minerva had long since stopped wondering about it. He didn't say anything, though, and for a while they sat in silence, looking out to the grey water that seemed to be clinging to the colourless horizon. The landscape suddenly ceased to be beautiful and transformed into something grim and bleak. Minerva shuddered and drew her knees to her body.

"I don't want to go back," Tom said suddenly through clenched teeth. "I hate it there."

Minerva was taken aback by the venom in his voice and she asked tentatively: "Where?"

Instead of answering, Tom spun around and Minerva winced, when she saw the hatred in his eyes. For a second she could have sworn that there was something else in those blue orbs, like snakes uncoiling to strike, and she shuddered once again. Tom advanced suddenly and Minerva found herself backing away further and further.

"You don't know what I am talking about?" Tom laughed mirthlessly, as Minerva finally stopped, her skirt muddy and wet, her fingers dirty, but defiance shining in her eyes. "Remember the Gryffindor in you, do you?" he asked mockingly, but she did not answer. "Do you want to know all the reasons why I hate this dingy orphanage where I am forced to live? Do you want to know how the muggles treat one whom they perceive as different? Have you heard muggle childrens' cruel taunts before? Heard their curses and spiteful words, aimed at you? Do you know what it's like to be a freak? Always, constantly alone-"Tom gasped for breath and Minerva looked at him with wide eyes.

"Tom-"she tried.

"Go away," he shouted suddenly, spinning around with blazing eyes.

And then, all Gryffindor courage abandoning her, Minerva scrambled to her feet and ran away.

Later, when he approached her in the train and asked very courteously for her forgiveness and offered contrite words with a downcast expression, Minerva believed him. A part of her hated herself for it, but she was like a moth, drawn to the deadly beautiful shine of a candle and she could not withstand it. _"You're losing yourself , Minerva,"_ the cautious part inside of her cried. _"Better be careful."_

And deep down, she knew that the voice was right, but she couldn't and wouldn't try to resist the pull that Tom exerted on her. Minerva McGonagall was lost.

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_tbc... I live on reviews, you know^^_


	3. 1938

_Hi! Thank you for so many wonderful reviews! You made my day and so I typed quicker to get this chapter done. It's longer than the first one and I hope you like it (= Thank you for your reviews, **tartan-angel**, **Lairiel**, **.everyonepanic.**, **corruptone** and **VanillaFieldsofGold!**_

_-Sachita  
_

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**Chapter Two**

**Hogwarts, September 1938**

She had again received a letter from home and, as if to emphasise her mood, a thunderstorm was brewing outside. Minerva hadn't been able to stand the homely atmosphere of Gryffindor Tower anymore, not when inside of her everything felt bleak and rugged. Elma's questions had been full of half-hearted concern, but Minerva normally appreciated her nagging, for in spite of her irritating streak, Elma was the only one, who was friendly to her and did not want to copy her notes. Minerva had never been truly popular. There was a girl in Ravenclaw she was friends with, Rose Wilkins, but other than her and Elma she had no true friends. Maybe it was because she preferred the smell of parchment to perfume and because she valued her books more than looks from so-called handsome boys.

Either way, she did not care and Elma's questions only annoyed her that night. Gathering her raincoat tightly about her, she left the Tower. She desperately needed to get away from it all: her mother had managed to upset her so with one single letter. The letter did not consist of harsh words, but neither of friendly ones; Minerva's problem was rather that there was nothing in that letter, neither warmth, nor love, nor hatred. Just...cool detachment. But, she laughed bitterly as she thought about it, had she ever expected anything else from her mother? Her heart was pounding in spite of herself as she walked out of the castle. It was long past curfew, but she did not care. Outside it was raining and finally, she smiled weakly.

Silver droplets of wetness glistened on soaked dark hair and ran over tightly-shut eyes. Teeth gleamed in the moonlight, as the girl spun around and around. She danced to a soundless tune, swirling around in the rain

"What are you doing?" It had been the amused drawl of a familiar voice.

Minerva stopped immediately, face red with exertion and shining with wetness and tears. Her hair was plastered to her forehead in thick, black strands. She was shaken and still on the verge of tears, though she knew that she could not afford to show any weakness.

"Why," she stated thus boldly and hoped that he could not hear the slight tremor to her voice, "I am dancing."

"In the rain?" Tom finally stepped out of the shadows, and Minerva noted, that he had cast a protection spell against the water, something far beyond the abilities of any ordinary Second Year. The water was sliding off his body in large drops, leaving him dry and looking quite smug at her wet, dishevelled appearance.

"Aye, in the rain," she replied in irritation. "What else?"

He continued to look smugly amused. "Normally, people do not tend to dance in the rain in the middle of the night."

Minerva smoothed a few strands of hair out of her face. "Well, I am," she replied bitingly. "As a matter of fact, I enjoy rain." She paused as something occurred to her. "Wait a minute. What are you doing out here anyway?"

Tom shrugged nonchalantly and gave her a shrewd glance from underneath dark bangs.

"I could ask you the same."

Minerva shrugged as well. Two could play that game.

He sighed and asked finally: "What reasons does a little girl have to dance in the rain, even if she enjoys it?"

Minerva gave him a flat look that was sadly lost due to the darkness surrounding them.

"I am older than you, so don't call me little."

"Grown-ups do not tend to dance around in the rain," Tom pointed out neutrally, but Minerva still threw her hands up.

"What is it to you?" she cried. "Leave me alone, Tom."

"You never say Riddle to me, always Tom," Tom mused. His head snapped abruptly up and he fixed a dangerous glare on her, that she felt even through the darkness. "Why?"

But Minerva was irritated and could not give less on disgruntled Slytheriny glares in the middle of the night. "Why not!" she replied heatedly. "Leave me alone, Tom."

"Oh," the infuriating boy chuckled, "I do not think I will do that." He stepped closer and Minerva was annoyed to realise, that he was towering over her. He must have grown over the holidays.

"Pray tell me, Minerva, what is your real reason for dancing in the rain?"

Minerva boldly stepped closer as well. "I don't have one," she repeated, knowing that it was a lie, but she would never tell the truth to Tom. "But maybe I am doing it for fun."

"Fun?" It was asked on an incredulous note.

"Yes, fun," Minerva sighed. Out of impulse she pushed him, penetrating his protection charm and leaving wet handprints on his robes. For all his coldness, she noted, he felt very warm and solid.

"What was that for?" He snarled furiously and, faster than she could have reacted, he had brandished his wand.

"It was fun," she replied tartly, ignoring the outstretched wand. "If you do that, Tom, I swear we shan't be friends any longer."

"Friends?" he asked, sounding bemused, but at least he put his wand away. "Are we friends?"

"I should believe so," Minerva answered stiffly. She imagined seeing a calculating gleam in his eyes for a moment, but before she could be sure, it was gone and she was left standing in front of him, only a few inches away from his face.

"Then we are friends, Minerva," he finally said. Suddenly, he put a hand up and pushed some wet hair out of her face. "You are a strange one, Minerva McGonagall."

"As are you," she replied, and without even knowing why she did so, she stepped forward and placed a brief peck on his cheek. Then she turned around and sprinted to the castle, leaving him standing there in the rain and staring motionlessly out in the shadows.

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**McGonagall Manor, Scotland, 26th December 1938**

Intricately-patterned ice crystals plummeted from icy heights to the freezing ground, burying the last remains of the garden's fine greenery under a thick layer of snow. A sharp gust of air lifted the snowflakes high into the air, then they were dropped abruptly to hit the large window panes of a stately manor with surprising force. A girl in a dark dress sat at one of the windows. It was half-opened and the icy winds violently whipped her ebony hair into her face, but she didn't even seem to notice. Red-nosed and pale she stared out into the snow storm with burning eyes. A single tear ran down her wind-reddened cheeks and she raised a hand to wipe it away defiantly.

"Miss?" The gravelly voice of Fletcher interrupted her reverie. "Miss Minerva?" She made a hasty effort to pull herself together and hastily rubbed a hand over her face. "Yes, Fletcher?," Minerva finally asked and tried to sound cool and distanced. She didn't seem to succeed, though, for Fletcher looked at her with eyes full of sadness and, was that concern? Embarrassed and also somewhat angry, Minerva forced a smile on her face. In spite of everything, it just wouldn't do to be harsh with Fletcher. He had been her childhood confidante and for that, she loved the old House Elf. But she couldn't afford to show weakness now. Not even in front of Fletcher.

"Are you alright, Miss Minerva?" Not trusting her voice, she just gave him a little nod. Fletcher looked doubtful, but finally inclined his head. "The Missus requests your presence at dinner. She asks you to wear the black dress." "The black dress?" Minerva asked wearily. The black dress was a huge something made up of too much lace, a tight bodice and velvet gloves. It was as stifling as this house and Minerva despised it. "The black dress," Fletcher confirmed, and went to the door. Before opening it, however, he turned around and added: "The Missus wishes to remind you that there are Muggles present, so it would be appropriate to do your hair according to the current fashion."

Minerva simply nodded again, yet Fletcher made no move to go. "Fletcher?," she prompted resignedly. The elf's unblinking eyes were looking at her strangely. It almost looked to Minerva, as if the elf was hesitating. Then he came closer, not actually touching Minerva- he would have never done that- but so close that she could see the genuine worry and sadness reflected in his eyes. "Fletcher is your friend, Miss Minerva, please know that." Minerva nodded with a tight smile. Her damned eyes were burning again and all she could do was wave the elf away, even though she would have liked to thank him.

However, once he was gone, she fell down on her bed, silent tears streaming down her face. She hated it here. Eventually though, she picked herself up and slipped into her evening dress, used her wand to charm curls into her hair, pinned them up and walked dully down to dinner. Her mother was already there, her cold blue eyes flicking over Minerva in satisfied appraisal. She nodded at her and her mother returned the nod with cool elegance. Dinner proceeded as a detached affair and Minerva zoned soon out, as talk about the probable Muggle war started ("Hitler is striving for world domination and it's bound to end in conflict," one of the Muggles said. Her father, a Pureblood Wizard had no idea what he was talking about- the Muggles had only been invited out of what Minerva suspected to be a strange curiosity, the same curiosity that compels one to look at a caged rat- but he nodded nonetheless with an air of nonchalant superiority. "Of course, of course," he said.) Minerva stopped listening and her eyes wandered to the magnificent chandelier dangling over their heads. It was magically enchanted, of course, to look more sumptuous than it actually was. She tilted her head up to look at the glittering trinkets of the chandelier and her head swam. She counted the trinkets. Thirteen trinkets in total, just like her age. Thirteen years…Minerva stole a look at her mother, who was coolly looking straight ahead and did not seem to notice her daughter's hopeful eyes. Hastily, the girl looked back to the chandelier. It blurred in front of her eyes and her head was still swimming.

"Well, at least the war serves to increase production in-" A bemused hush fell over the room, as Mr. Thomas, whose face had taken on the colour of the wall behind him, stopped talking. Muggles and Wizards alike followed his gaze, then Mrs. Thomas shrieked. The magnificent huge chandelier swung around in soft circles, although there was not even the slightest breeze in the room. The Muggles trembled, no doubt thinking of ghosts, while Mrs. McGonagall's sharp gaze snapped to her daughter, who was staring white-faced at the chandelier. Mr .McGonagall cleared his throat and chuckled. "What a silly thing," he said calmly. "Apparently a window is opened somewhere." A discreet flick of his wand under the table and the characteristic noise of a gust of air through an open window started up. Thus reassured, the Muggles smiled shakily and commented upon their "silly fright."

"Unfortunately," Mrs. McGonagall announced frigidly, "Minerva isn't feeling too well. If you'd excuse us, please." The girl looked at her mother in astonishment, but Mrs. McGonagall just grabbed her arm and pulled her out of the room. She marched her up the stairs and opened Minerva's room door. Only then did she release her. "How could you?," Mrs. McGonagall snapped and Minerva relished for a moment in the feeling of seeing her mother unravelled and livid for once. It was a stark contrast to seeing her looking...well, blank. "We'll talk about that later." With that, Minerva was shoved into her dark room and the door was closed.

Tears of frustration and disbelieving anger ran down her cheeks. "Why can't I just hate you?" she screamed and she meant it, but a silencing charm had been cast on the door, so her scream fell literally on deaf ears. Minerva stood there for a while, then she sat on the bed, trying to cool down. Her gaze strayed outside. It was a full moon with grey clouds in his wake, that drifted at its edges like lost sheep. Gazing upwards she noted that the snow had made way for a sinister mixture of snow and rain. Minerva curled up on her bed and thought of Hogwarts. Home, for that was Hogwarts to her. Here was not home, here where she felt herself freezing up in spite of the warming blankets around her. Returning her eyes to the large window, she saw the vague shape of an owl flying by. A sudden idea struck her and she opened the window, whistling out into the darkness.

For long minutes, nothing happened. Then, suddenly, a great wet lump hurled itself at her and she nearly fell over. Smiling, she closed the window and examined the soaking owl in front of her. "Well, Caelus?" The owl blinked at her and clicked its beak several times. Minerva regarded it with an affectionate smile, then walked over to her desk to withdraw a small scroll of parchment. Mere minutes later, a dishevelled and severely disgruntled owl was flying through the storm.

The sun was rising over London when the same owl finally arrived. It set itself down on a chimney and screeched sharply, setting its delivery unhappily down. The sun cast resplendent blue shadows on the owl's white feathers, when it flapped its wings heavily. Before too long, however, it was on its way again. The area it arrived at held nothing of the elegance of the McGonagall Manor. It was run-down and grey; there was no better word to describe it. The children playing on the street were clad in grey, the ball made up of lumps and trash was grey and the gloomy house's roof the owl landed on, was of the same colour.

Excited shouts arose from the street. "Oh! Look! An owl! How did it get here?" The owl clicked uneasily and shifted from one leg to the other. It eyed the narrow chimney and turned away again. The children on the street were picking up stones now, while the owl grew uneasier still. Then a pale, dark-haired boy stepped out into the street and suddenly the children backed down, moving away from the boy. The owl, sensing an opening, fluttered down from the roof and perched itself on a metal rod sticking out of the ground, right in front of the boy. The other children shrieked as the boy gave a feral smile and appeared to be talking to the owl.

Tom, for it was no other, allowed his amusement at the dumb Muggles' antics shine through for a moment, then he turned to the owl. "Who might you be?" The owl cocked its head to a side and regarded him condescendingly, as if to show him that it was far better than him. To his own surprise, Tom felt his amusement grow, for he had never seen an owl before, which had looked quite as arrogant as this one. "Do you have a message for me, oh almighty one?" The owl paused for a moment, completely missing the hidden irony, then inclined its head in a benevolent gesture and stretched its left leg towards Tom. Tom untied the thick scroll of parchment and his eyes widened, as he saw whom it was from. "Minerva McGonagall," he mumbled bemused. Of course, Minerva, and he thought of her, intriguing girl that she was. As smart as a snake, yet as loyal as a lioness. The epitome of Gryffindor and yet friends with a Slytherin. A thin smile with only rare flashes of white teeth, eyes the colour of Scotland's hills on a rainy day, hair like ebony. She could be useful to him still. With calculated precision he opened the scroll. A neat script greeted him. Minerva had always been self-sufficient and efficient and thus her scrawl was devoid of any useless decorations and ornaments. For some odd reason, a pleased smile hushed across his face.

**What is the weather like in London? I shall hope it is raining. – Minerva**

Tom smirked. He took the owl to his room. Halfway up the shabby staircase he saw Amy and Dennis in a dim corridor. When catching sight of him, they fled and Tom nodded in satisfaction. They had obviously learned their lesson. Once in his room, he opened his trunk to withdraw a roll of parchment.

**No it is not, dearest. – Tom**

A weather-beaten owl landed on a chimney opposite of the orphanage, but abruptly lost its footing, rolled down from the roof and fell into a mud puddle.

**I am _not_ your dearest, Tom. I got something to ask of you though, for I expect you to understand. Do you ever feel like flying away? – Minerva**

**Do tell your owl, ****dearest****, not to land in mud puddles if it can be prevented. And you do own a broomstick, do you not? –Tom**

An owl landed in front of the orphanage, taking care to wander through every mud puddle in sight.

**My owl is a very independent entity. It does not take well to orders, especially yours. I do, but that is beside the point. The world should consist of more than shades of grey, shouldn't it? -Minerva**

Tom's scrawl was untidy as he replied.

**Sometimes the world is not enough. Imagine if they would all bow to you instead of taunting you. We could see the world in every colour that there is. Imagine. – Tom**

Minerva frowned when reading the message and dipped her feather into her ink pot quickly.

**I am not sure I understand what you mean. – Minerva**

**You do not have to. **Tom paused and thought of all the colours that the world offered: red, pouring from the cut in his knee not a day ago; green like his snake Nagini's scales, a dense grey like London on an autumn day, blue like the water of a lake on a winter day. He would have all that, would have the taste of obedience once, would know what it was like to be bowed to instead of bowing and he would make them all see, this city, this island, the world, the universe. All, all, all. Nagini slid across the floor to him with a mouse in her fangs and Tom watched in morbid fascination, how the mouse's legs twitched for a last time. Then Nagini devoured it with one bite. Turning his attention back to the scroll, he let his quill hover over it indecisively, and then ended the message with a simple –**Tom.**

Minerva's reply took a while, but when it arrived, it was written in a hesitant hand.

**I suppose I do not, Tom. Everyone sees the world in different colours after all, but I can't wait to leave home. The colours here are not enough for me- the grey of indifference and the glaring white of detachment. They don't care for my existence, you know. –Minerva **

**P.S.: Are you afraid of the war?**

Tom's reply was fervent and quick.

**I do know exactly what you mean, but better be glad that you are not visible like me. At times being see-through is better, believe me. But look, if they do not care for your existence, just ignore it. I do care for your existence. – Tom**

**P.S.: It doesn't matter whether I am afraid or not. Either the Muggle War or the Wizard War will surely hit me. I **_**am**_** located in trouble's centre, you know.**

Minerva's reply was a mixture of sheepishness, disbelief and a touch of sadness, which had left wet stains smelling of salt on the parchment.

**It is so dreadful where you are? Do they treat you so badly? And you do...you do ...care for me? That is a nice thing to say, Tom. I believe I care for you as well. We are friends, are we not? I am sorry about my question about the war. That was quite insensitive of me. – Minerva**

Tom's quill hesitated over the parchment. Did he care for her? He thought for a while, and then a cold smirk hushed over his face. Of course- her believing he cared for her would only increase her eagerness to help him. He was not sure, how he was going to achieve what he aimed for; submission and obedience, but he would surely find a way with her help. He shoved the small part of him, which genuinely rejoiced at her words of "I care for you as well", ruthlessly aside, even though he had never heard that before. No-one had cared for him before. A real smile hushed across his face for a second as that normally dormant part of him resented being shoved aside and took control for a second.

**I do care for you, Minerva...we are friends. Do not worry about the question. Grindelwald is powerful, is he not? Maybe war will come to Britain due to him, but of course the old fool Dumbledore will attempt to hold him off. –Tom**

Minerva did not reply for days and Tom found himself getting increasingly tense and edgy. The other orphans avoided him even more than usual. Although Tom attributed his foul mood to the weather- it had been raining for two days now and being cooped up with all the others did not do much for his disposition- even he could not deny, that while immersed in his school books, his eyes would wander to the grey sky from time to time and look out for a wind-blown owl. On the third day, finally, Caelus arrived, and Tom tore the scroll of the owl's leg in impatient expectation, which earned him a bleeding ear as the sharp talons of the irritated owl grazed him.

**Dumbledore is a great wizard, Tom. **He could even see Minerva's indignation, so vivid did it shine through her words. **Oh Merlin, I wished I could stay away from you, but I couldn't. The silence came back and your letters have always been my only solace in this house. I can't stand it anymore. – Minerva**

Tom's reply was very careful. **I apologise for having caused offence to you, Minerva. **Satisfied, he noted, that he had not apologised for his words regarding Dumbledore. A soft melody caught his attention and he opened the large window with some difficulty to see the woman in the grey dress from across the street. She sat at her piano and as always, only played one tune. She had done that for as long as Tom could remember. The room she was sitting in was dusty; sometimes, on sunny days, he could see the dust motes playing in the air. The woman had never looked up as long as he could remember and he had never seen her on the street either. He only ever saw her sometimes at the piano, playing the same sad tune. Sometimes she seemed so unreal that he found himself wondering, if she really existed.

Today, however, that tune caused him such anguish, that he felt as if some unknown force was ripping him apart. He wrapped his arms around his thin body and found himself shivering, as he stared up in the cloudy London air. It was raining. Suddenly he wished to be greater than he was now, wished to achieve greatness and something, something that would get him far away from here. He found himself longing for the colours Minerva had yearned for. She had sounded so earnest. "Yes," he whispered tightly. He wanted to be someone; he wanted to be remembered, to be looked at with reverence. He wanted to be great, to be powerful, wanted the power to make all of those taunters and cruel mockers shut up, wanted to be admired and feared. Looking over to the woman at the piano, he feared ever becoming like her; a dusty relict of the past forever wallowing in old, long-forgotten memories. A great, shuddering sigh burst from his lips and he walked back to the desk, picking his quill up. **Today it is raining, Minerva. Please reply. –Tom**

And before he could cross the word `Please´ out, Caelus had swooped down to take the scroll and flew out of the window, leaving Tom shuddering inwardly at having exposed himself like that to a human being. He had never done that before. Casting a resentful glare at the piano woman, for this was certainly her fault, he closed the window with a thud.

Minerva stared at the empty parchment for a long time, before dipping her quill into her ink pot again. She cautiously searched for words, for she knew that they were important.

**The sun shall shine for you tomorrow, Tom. I sincerely hope so. Every meagre sunray that arrives here will be sent to you.- Minerva**

The New Year arrived with great steps. When the clock struck twelve, Mrs. McGonagall looked at her daughter and gave her a nod. "A successful new year to you, my daughter. " Minerva knew what was expected of her due to long years of practice, and thus she inclined her head and replied in kind, before moving over to her father and repeating the procedure. But before she could excuse herself, a loud voice interrupted: "Is that my little Minerva?" She turned around and there he was, her much older brother, Andrew. His brown eyes twinkled merrily under his dark mop of hair and he opened his arms wide. "Drew!" she shouted in delight and jumped into his arms, as her parents watched in disapproval at this breach of etiquette. Andrew laughed and swung her around, before setting her down and going over to greet her parents.

Minerva sucked in a sharp breath. She had forgotten about Tom. Ignoring Caelus's sleepy protest, she tied hastily a scroll of parchment to his leg and saw him off. While watching the owl fly away, strong arms came from behind and snaked around her waist. She smiled and turned around to her brother, who smiled at her warmly. Minerva noted that he was clad in formal Muggle attire and a dark hat was peeking out from underneath his armpit. She took it and placed it atop her head, striking a pose similar to the Muggle actresses she had seen on the large colourful signs that the Muggles used to advertise their- were they called films?-with. "How do I look?" Andrew grinned at her silliness and Minerva shrieked, as she overbalanced and nearly fell out of the window. Her brother quickly put a steadying grip on her. "Careful, there," he warned her. "A witch you may be, but you still cannot fly without a broom." Minerva smiled up at him- there was no stopping her exuberance- and twirled out of his arms, dancing through the dimly-lit room. Her locks bounced and her long dress swung out in wide circles, as she stopped with laughing eyes. Andrew surveyed her with a certain melancholy. His sister had grown to be a beautiful young Lady in his absence.

"Tell me," Minerva began eagerly. "What was Tokyo like? Are the people all black-haired? What are the cherry trees like? How was New York? Are the Ladies of New York really all adorned with what Muggles call a lipstick? Tell me, what were the Alps like? Did you find one of those rare white flowers, the Edelweiss? Are the people there really as grim and joyful at the same time, how I was told?" She stopped and sought his eyes. "And tell me, brother, did you see many colourful places?"

Andrew laughed and placed a hand on the small of her back, leading her out of the room so he could tell her more about his experiences when travelling the world.

In a bleak orphanage in London, a boy was awoken by the insistent pecking of an owl's beak against his window. Tom padded barefoot in his threadbare pyjamas to the window and opened it sleepily, for he had gone to bed early last evening. Tom had had no wish to join in the so-called celebrations downstairs. New Year's Eve involved being able to eat more than the usual ration of one portion per child, it involved new patches for old clothes and dreadful singing by his fellow orphans. He did not wish to be reminded that another year had gone by and he was still stuck in his miserable existence, except maybe to realise, that he was closer to finally being able to leave this place. The owl hopped from one leg to the other impatiently and Tom finally untied the scroll.

**A very happy New Year 1939 to you, Tom.- Minerva**

In the darkness of his room, Tom Riddle smiled.

* * *

_tbc...so, what do you think of it? ...oh, and if you want to know, which song the woman at the piano plays, then go to youtube and look for "David Lanz- Cristofori's Dream". It's really great.  
_


	4. 1939 Part I

_Hello! Your reviews are awesome and it's wonderful to get them (= Thank you, **stsgirlie, VanillaFieldsOfGold, .everyonepanic., tartan-angel, Luanna255, pipermarie23, itsmidnighthere** and **Lairiel**! You are really great! Hopefully you'll like this chapter as well.  
_

_-Sachita (=  
_

* * *

**Chapter Three**

**Hogwarts, Spring 1939**

Minerva knocked on the door of the Transfiguration professor. It was a cold spring day and outside dawn was already beginning to fall in dark hues.

"Ah Miss McGonagall, I trust you have finished your transfiguration essay." Minerva smiled, eager to please her favourite professor. "Yes, Professor Dumbledore," she answered and handed him three thick scrolls of parchment.

His eyebrows rose. "You made quite an effort on this, my dear."

"Yes, Professor," Minerva replied, adding, "Personally, I thought that the topic of transfiguring needles into living objects is a very delicate matter that has to be explored extensively."

Dumbledore's blue eyes twinkled behind his glasses. "Oh, yes, Miss McGonagall. A valid point. As you know, Gamp's Law of Elemental Transfiguration states that..." But Minerva did not listen to him because her eyes had strayed over to the still figure leaning in the open door. Though half-hidden in the shadows, she recognised the neatly-parted ebony hair.

"Is there anything else you need, Professor?" she asked him absent-mindedly, not even noticing that she had interrupted him in the middle of a sentence.

Dumbledore stopped talking and followed her eyes. If Minerva had turned around to him in that very moment, she would have seen a look half-caught between concern and wariness, as he looked between her and the boy. However, her eyes were firmly fixed on the figure in the doorframe, so she didn't see it. "You may go, Miss McGonagall," the Professor said finally.

Minerva hardly got out a hurried "Thank You, Professor," before hastening over to the door and to the boy, who leaned there and watched her superiorly. " Tom, what-?" She had only seen him fleetingly in the hallways after the Christmas Holidays, so his sudden appearance both alerted and confused her. In spite of that, though, she welcomed his company, as she always did. He exerted a kind of bewitching attraction over her, which she couldn't have resisted even if she had wanted.

"Minerva," he replied neutrally and only then did Minerva see the group of Slytherins gathered behind him. Her eyes widened and she stared at them, nearly forgetting that she was still standing in front of Dumbledore's office door. All that she saw were a group of Slytherins staring in her direction suspiciously with no fellow Gryffindor in sight. "Tom," she started again. "What?"

"Oh," Tom said as one would say when talking about something pesky, "They bother you, don't they?" He waved a casual hand over his shoulder and the group of Slytherins disbanded immediately. Minerva followed them with her eyes, as they walked down the corridor and then disappeared around the corner. "Tom," she stated again, clear surprise in her voice as she hadn't been under the impression that his housemates had treated him with such a degree of respect before. In fact, she was quite sure of it and wondered what had happened.

Tom actually smirked this time and said with a touch of sly humour: "Don't worry, Minerva, I have not bewitched them. That would be beyond the power of a mere Second Year, now wouldn't it?"

"I am not so sure there because it's you and-" Minerva started, but before she could finish her sentence, Tom, with an impatient gleam in the eye, grabbed her arm and dragged her with him.

* * *

"Tom!" she yelled in irritation. "Where are we going?"

Minerva did not appreciate being kept in the dark, as she was accustomed to knowing everything about what was going on, or at least nearly. And if she didn't, she would always be able to make out people's motives by simply assessing their character and their possible intentions in a certain situation. With Tom on the other hand, she was completely clueless as he was at least as good at her at that game, if not better. He did not reply to her increasingly furious queries and just dragged her further along. Since he was strong and tall for his age, Minerva couldn't break his grip with brute force either.

When they stopped in a corridor completely unknown to Minerva, she gazed at Tom questioningly, but he just did something to a portrait of a fruit bowl. It transformed into a door and he entered the room behind it. Confused and suspicious she stayed where she was until Tom stuck his head back out of the portrait. For a while, neither moved and they stared at each other in silence. Then Tom said: "So, are you coming?"

Minerva stared at him in disbelief. "You don't think, Tom, that I would follow a Slytherin into an unknown room with no idea where I end up and what you plan to do with me then?"

Tom laughed, a real genuine laugh, which she had rarely heard on him. "Don't worry, Minerva, the Slytherin torture chambers are all occupied today, so you are lucky." When she still hesitated, he shook his head in amused exasperation. "Oh come, Minerva, where is your Gryffindor courage? Are you afraid of following the big bad Slytherin into the kitchen?"

Astonished Minerva stared at him. "The kitchen?" she questioned in a deadpan sort of voice.

"Yes, the kitchen. Now do I have to drag you in? That might be painful." Minerva finally gave herself a shove and clambered in after Tom, who clapped her shoulder in a mock show of pride. "Very good, Minerva. Well-done." She glowered at him, but then her eyes wandered past him and she stared at the huge room surrounding her in wonder. Pans and posts were arranged on the walls in a neat order. Long preparation tables stood in four orderly rows in the middle of the room. Huge stoves lined the wall opposite of her and everywhere bustled busy House-Elves. "Oh dear," Minerva breathed and Tom could hardly contain his hilarity at her exclamation.

A House-elf with large, droopy eyes stopped in front of them and bowed deeply. "Sonny has prepared the picnic basket for Master Tom." Minerva could not help but notice how Tom visibly stood up straighter at the word "Master".

"Thank you, Sonny," he said and took the proffered basket, as always impeccably polite. Then, before Minerva could further gaze about, he pushed her back out of the portrait. She just followed him mutely, still impressed by the kitchen- she had known that House Elves prepared the Hogwarts meals, but she had not known that there were _so_ many- until they had left the kitchen behind and had arrived at the upper parts of the castle.

"Where are we going, Tom?"

"The roof," he replied taciturnly, but his words made Minerva freeze. She grabbed his sleeve.

"Tom, that's forbidden!"

He just replied with a nonplussed smirk. Finally, seeing her expression, he sighed. "It's Saturday tomorrow and you know you want it, Minerva," he mumbled silkily and when she was still hesitating, he whispered into her ear: "You know you want it." Under the force of his persuasion powers Minerva found herself climbing up on the roof no two minutes later.

* * *

It was beautiful up there; she had to give him that. From their position they could overlook the entire Hogwarts grounds ending at the edges of the Forbidden Forest. The tops of the dark trees on the other hand formed a seamless connection with the blue-tinted sky spangled with stars on this clear night. In a word, it was enchanting.

Minerva turned her head to look at Tom, who was appreciatively popping a grape into his mouth. "I've always wanted to do have a picnic," he said. "Ever since I saw those _toffs _in Hyde Park with their white breeches, their arrogant demeanor and their insincere smiles, who had a picnic while listening to our oh-so-splendid-voices." Minerva looked at him questioningly and he clarified with a sneer: "We had to sing in front of a whole party of them. Of course- because we're orphans it must surely mean that we always want to sing in front of those, who benevolently grant us money for us threadbare clothes and our watery stew!" Minerva was surprised by the force of his bitterness.

"At least you have your fellow orphans to play with," she offered tentatively, bitterly thinking of her lonely childhood spent in cold rooms with high ceilings. Her brother had always been too old as to qualify as a playmate, he had always been more like a parent substitute. Having a whole house full of children to play with struck her as wonderful in comparison, but her illusions were destroyed by Tom's scoff.

"Oh, of course," he sneered, "the Muggle children. Pray tell, Minerva, what do you reckon Muggle children will do if they perceive you as freak?" Minerva shuddered a little in the cold air at his words and Tom continued grimly: "They didn't play with me, at least not in the common sense of the word "play"." He was silent and stared out into the night, and then he whispered harshly: "Oh, I made them pay, don't doubt that. I made them pay."

"What did you do?" Minerva asked frightfully.

"I hexed them," Tom answered blandly. "Made them see things."

Minerva gasped. "Oh, that is awful!" she cried.

Tom spun around with blazing eyes. "What they did to me was awful as well," he growled.

Minerva winced in face of his anger, but then she thought about it. Tom was her friend and he was here with here in the starlight, sincere and passionate. She did not know those other children, who knew what they had done to him? Tom was her friend.

Minerva wanted to believe him so badly and thus she nodded. "I believe you."

The ghost of a smile flitted over his face in the dim light as Tom treated himself to some raspberries and offered some to Minerva as well. "Thanks," he said.

They ate in companionable silence for a while, there, under the stars and the waxy glow of the moon. Minerva knew that it had to be long past curfew, but in a way that nearly made her giggle, she did not care. Breaking the rules was much more fun than she had thought. Sometime Tom withdrew a leather-bound volume from his bag and Minerva looked at it curiously.

"Look." He handed it over to her and when she had taken a closer look at it, a soft gasp escaped her lips.

"Tom, those are very advanced spells. I believe they are only taught in Fourth Year."

Tom chuckled. "I know. But wouldn't you want to learn them earlier?" Minerva hesitated. "Oh come on," he coaxed. "We could discover great things along the way."

Minerva still wavered, but she knew that she had made her decision. She could neither resist him nor the possibility to learn more and discover things along the way. As the Sorting Hat had once told her, ambition and curiosity was there aplenty.

"Fine then," she told Tom haughtily, in a tone that indicated that her decision had been a reluctant one and that he should think himself lucky at her positive reply.

Tom seemed earnest. "Very well, then, Minerva. On Thursday in the library. At five pm. Be punctual." With that, he suddenly jumped down from the roof to disappear where they had come up.

"Wait!" Minerva was aware that she sounded maudlin. "What about me?"

"I thought you are clever," Tom called back and there was definite laughter in his voice. "I trust you will be able to get down alone, Minnie."

Fury rose up in her. "Tom Riddle!" she screeched. "Never call me Minnie again!" The echo of his laughter was her only reply and she wanted to chase after him in anger, when suddenly a door creaked open and the sound of the caretaker's voice could be heard: "Who is there?" Minerva stayed quietly where she was and took care not to make a sound. When the footsteps of the caretaker moved away, she slipped down from the roof and into Gryffindor Tower as quickly as she could. But in spite of the terror the caretaker's voice had invoked in her, she found a slightly hysterical giggle bubble over her lips, which was a contradiction in itself. Minerva McGonagall did not giggle. Yet when she thought of meeting Tom in the library in two days, a silly grin fixed itself onto her face. She could not bring herself to erase it.

* * *

Thursday found her strangely excited and for once, she could not wait for her classes to be over. Elma at her side chattered incessantly away about boys, lipstick and Holiday soirees which Minerva hadn't even heard about. Minerva was just about to tell her to stop talking about it, when out of the sudden a small, wailing girl with pigtails and glasses bumped into her. "Whoa," Minerva said and held out her hands to steady herself and the girl. "Easy there." The little girl's lips quivered as she looked up to Minerva, who noticed that she was a First Year Ravenclaw. "So what is your name?" she asked finally in a careful attempt at kindliness. "M-M-Myrtle," the girl proclaimed with a sniffle, before collapsing into tears again. "A-a-and they were so me-mean to me..."

Feeling irritated and helpless Minerva looked away from the girl, while Elma attempted to comfort her with some soothing words. Meanwhile Minerva tried to suppress her irritation with the little girl, as she had never been one to cry. If tears had come, her mother had pursed her lips and looked away, as crying was not becoming on pure-blood witches of their status in her opinion. So Minerva had learned to cry quietly, when nobody was listening save for her pillow. Looking up, she met Tom's eye, who was surrounded by a sea of Slytherin students. He gave her a look full of understanding when seeing her predicament- he was not one to share his feelings in such an open way either- and she mouthed "five pm" at him. He nodded smoothly and disappeared in the crowd, while Minerva stared after him with a feeling of excited elation.

The large clock on the castle wall struck five, when Minerva walked into the library. She immediately spotted Tom sitting at one of the tables a bit at the side. "Tom," she greeted him.

"Minerva." He looked up and pushed a book over to her. "Look."

"Fourth Year Charms," she read quietly and looked up to see excitement shine in his eyes. He did not smile, he hardly ever smiled or laughed, but for him that shine was as animated as he could be. At the sight of his enthusiasm, a small smile curled Minerva's lips. She wondered why she could not deny this boy anything.

"We could practice them in an empty classroom," Tom proclaimed in a whisper. "No one would know."

Minerva nodded, her head already swirling with ideas of where they could find that empty classroom. In matters of practicability, Minerva McGonagall had always been one of the finest. She proceeded to read the introduction of the book for a while, before looking at Tom and simply asking: "But why do you want to learn these spells, Tom? Aren't the things you learn in your form enough to satisfy your curiosity?"

Tom chuckled lowly, reminding Minerva of a fox as he surveyed her with gleaming intelligent eyes.

"Oh my dear Minerva," he said in a grand fashion, sounding much older than he was. "You of all people should know that I am perpetually curious. And I want to be the best." To that Minerva could relate and so she nodded, as she wanted to be the best as well. With a slight shake of her head, she dispelled the words of the Sorting Hat, that kept running through her head: "Ambition is there aplenty...an option...Slytherin an option...Slytherin..."

As the days grew warmer, Minerva and Tom could often be found in the library while their classmates played outside. The quiet sighs of Madam Scrittura, the librarian, who read in the dim light of a Muggle candle in the corner, while absent-mindedly picking hairpins from her bun, did not do anything to disturb them. Even in the evening, they poured over scrolls and books, discovering things with delight and whispering in excited voices over the origins of a spell. Sometimes one of them would look up and meet the other's gaze with a quiet smile filled with elation and a sort of adventurous childish glee, for they were both natures that drew great joy from discovering and learning instead of being outside and joining in the wild games. That set them apart from the others, but also enabled them to build up a world of their own, where only the two of them existed.

* * *

On a foggy April evening they sat at their usual table, and they had two large mugs filled with steaming cocoa between them. Sometime Minerva looked up and Tom did so, too. For a while, they just stared at each other through the steam of the cocoa. The warm shine of the candle threw dark shadows on their faces, while the thin grey steam did even more to make their faces just that little bit more unreal and blurry. It felt to them like standing in the fog at a river, while the lights of a steamboat pass by in the distance, but eventually faded. It was just a fleeting impression that you longed to capture, to make that moment last forever. However, it was clear to both of them that the moment would pass and leave them standing there in the fog, yearning for something inexplicable, while the minutes ticked by and transformed into days and days transformed into months... months transformed into years...and they would not be able to keep that moment. Instead, the fog would light up and the sun would shine onto a completely different scene. Life would go on and they could not fight it. Filled with an inexplicable sadness that she saw mirrored in Tom's eyes, Minerva lowered her gaze. They went on studying, but the peaceful tranquility of that evening was broken.

However, they were young still and so they kept on discovering new things there in their own little world. Minerva dreaded the long time of the summer holidays already, but when the last afternoon to spend time in the library arrived, Tom looked up from his notes and gave her a small smile.

"Think your owl Caelus is up to some more flying?"

Minerva smiled widely. "I am sure he is." She paused. "I told him to wander through those mud puddles last year, you know."

Tom remarked gravely: "What an insidious streak you have, Minerva." But the twinkle in his eyes betrayed him and they looked at each other, bursting into spontaneous laughter.

* * *

The summer holidays were filled with many letters and thus a disgruntled Caelus had to cross the distance between a stately manor in Scotland and an orphanage in the City of London more often than it would have liked.

"Who is that fellow, Tom, you keep writing to?" Minerva's brother Andrew asked her one day. She looked at her big brother and noticed the restless gleam in his eye. He would be gone soon again, she knew, maybe to Germany, maybe to Australia or to China. He had never been one to stay in one place for an extended period of time, and with a little sigh, Minerva told her favourite person all about Tom Riddle. Andrew listened in silence.

"He seems like an agreeable enough chap," he said finally and added: "But be careful. He is a Slytherin after all."

"So what?" Minerva retorted defiantly. "Does being a Slytherin make him a bad person?"

"No," Andrew replied gravely, "but you know how Father and Mother think."

"Well," Minerva murmured rebelliously, "They don't care for me, so why should I care what they think of me anyhow?"

Andrew sighed and shook his head. "They do care for you, Minerva," he tried to explain with all the worldliness of a bigger brother. But Minerva would have none of it and so he relented finally. "Just...be careful, Min, you hear me?" She just nodded, mentally already counting the time left that Caelus would need to return with the latest reply from Tom.

The end of August saw Andrew's departure to India, which was a tearful occurrence for Minerva, but she took comfort in the fact that her own departure to Hogwarts was only a few days away.

* * *

And then, on the first of September 1939, Minerva finally found herself again in a mass of red and yellow scarves to begin her fourth year at Hogwarts. However, even before Headmaster Dippet could start his welcome speech, a dishevelled owl tumbled into the Great Hall and landed at Dippet's feet. He paused and picked it up, while all eyes were fixed on it. Minerva saw, that the owl had brought a copy of the Daily Prophet and wondered whether there was news of the dark wizard Grindelwald, who was wreaking havoc in Europe.

Then, Dippet straightened up and said in an unusually loud and clear voice in the expectant silence:

"Germany has invaded Poland today morning. War has been declared."

In the sudden hush, frightened glances were exchanged and Minerva felt her heart beat faster as her eyes met the grim gaze of Tom over at the Slytherin table. A dark feeling of foreboding assaulted her.

The Second World War had officially begun.

* * *

_tbc_


	5. 1939 Part II

* * *

_Phew. Hi everyone. This chapter was a piece of work, I can tell you. I hope you'll like it. Anyway, thank you very much for the great review that you left for the last chapter! Thank you, **tartan-angel, VanillaFieldsOfGold, pipermarie23, .everyonepanic.** and **Delilah Anne Marie**! I'm sorry that I kept you waiting for so long, but school has been a nightmare those last few weeks. But then again, the time before New Year in a new school year is always bad and since it's my last year at school it will probably only get worse, so it could take me some time to update again. Sorry about that. Please tell me what you think of this chapter (=_

_~Sachita~_

_

* * *

  
_

**Chapter Four**

**Hogwarts, December 1939**

*****  
**

"Don't sit under the apple tree with anyone else but me, anyone else but me, anyone else but me…" A young girl's voice drifted out from the tightly-shut oak doors, which hid the Hogwarts library from view. The portraits on the walls in the corridor outside either listened in affectionate tolerance or screwed their eyes shut and put their fingers in their ears, if they were of the more sour sort. The voice, ignorant of it all, continued singing. The accent was of course wrong, Madam Scrittura mused as she slowly trudged towards the library. The rolling Scottish brogue didn't fit to the originally American song, she noted, but that was compensated with enthusiasm instead. Well, Madam Scrittura mused further, she'd have to reprimand the girl, for sure, but seeing that it was one of her most devoted readers, she was sure that a simple admonition would be enough.

Humming under her breath along to the tune, she rounded some large oak shelves, which nearly reached to the ceiling and brushed proudly along the leather binding of some of the books. They were certainly old. They even had a few records reaching back to the wizards and witches in Londinium to the Romans' time. Adjusting a few hair pins, she walked on to the desk where the singing was coming from. It was a small desk, wedged tightly in between two shelves full of books about botany and charms that was only sparsely illuminated by the bluish light flooding in through the daubed windows. Anyone rarely bothered to clean them except for a careless "scourgify" now and then and at the moment it seemed as if the then had been a long time ago. The windows were framed by the huge stone walls of the castle wall, that did their own part at sucking up all light and ended high up at the beams of the vault. A magically-enhanced candle was another weak light source. It stood on the table between the two persons sitting there. It was a boy and a girl, but while the boy's neatly-parted head of hair was lowered over a book, the girl perched precariously on her chair, rocking back and forth and singing absent-mindedly.

Madam Scrittura observed them for a moment. Minerva McGonagall and Tom Riddle. Of course. She smiled in wistful remembrance, thinking of meeting those two for the first time. They had only been first years at the time and they had come separately, but she had recognized the same fire in their eyes. Those two were special and she longed for the moment she could tell the world that she had been the first one to know so. When Tom Riddle invented ground-breaking charms, maybe, or when Minerva McGonagall found a way to transfigure thin air into something valuable. Then she, Madam Francesca Scrittura would tell the world that she had known about their genius all along. Oh yes, that she would. But first she needed to discipline her model students.

"Miss McGonagall," she intoned as strictly as she could with her warm-hearted Italian disposition. "Please behave yourself." The girl was startled and she nearly lost her balance as she stopped rocking abruptly, making the chair's legs crash forward on the floor with a dull thud. Sheepishly, Minerva wiped some black locks out of her face, looking up at the librarian.

"I'm sorry Ma'am," she offered contritely, and nodding, Madam Scrittura went away to indulge herself in the latest Witch Weekly.

Minerva's partner, meanwhile, had raised his eyes that shone like silver lanterns in the dimness. "It's a good thing you've finally stopped bloody singing," he growled and his voice spoke of frustration, which had been in the making for a longer time already.

"What are you talking about?" Minerva asked, crossing her arms.

"I am talking about your annoying singing," Tom repeated, slowly, as if he were speaking to a child.

Minerva, apparently, had no wish to give in. Plus she did really not appreciate being spoken to as if she were a child. One thing Minerva McGonagall valued most was her independence and her-at least outward- appearance of maturity. Those two things formed her protection shield and if Tom was going to question that very shield, Minerva would find a way to get back at him.

"It's Christmas, Tom," she replied thus in a falsely sweet tone of voice. "People are celebrating. You know, too warm Butterbeer and off-key Christmas songs?"

Tom's head whipped up and if would have taken a fool not to realise that he was beyond angry. "Well, Minerva," he said dangerously quiet, "it might have escaped your notice, but Christmas in an Orphanage is normally not so joyous an occasion. Double food portions that day, of course, but you choke on the food when you realise that the family next door is having roast turkey and Christmas pudding with Brandy Butter, but you, you have to bend over your second portion of Porridge, be a good little boy and mutter your contrite words of thanks to the City Charity Organisation and the Saviour, of course. You are the orphan boy, so you aren't allowed to ask for more anyway."

Minerva felt a loss for words. Yes, she had known that Christmases in orphanages tended to be sad occasions due to the nature of the whole place, but he also knew, or had an inkling, of what her family was like. So did he expect her to have a joyous Christmas? With a slight wince she recalled somewhere in the back of her mind Christmases spent with the whole family in uncomfortable silence while the clinking of the china and Auntie Mabel's loud shrill laughter were the only sounds in the room. Well, people said of her Auntie Mabel, she has ever been strange since she got knocked on the head back in the Twenties, hasn't she? But Minerva liked the curious, slightly childish ways of her Aunt a lot and with time she had realized somewhat guiltily, that this was only due to the cold nature of the rest of her family, not because she had particular affection for Auntie Mabel, who was sixty years old and still drooled sometimes. After that realization had set in, Minerva had never been able to look in the eyes of her Aunt without getting a pang of conscience. So she had found a reason to hate those in rooms with dark velvet curtains spent festivities even more.

Feeling exposed and strangely vulnerable, Minerva got up. She was horrified to notice that tears were starting to gather in her eyes. "I'm going," she snapped.

"Fine," Tom replied harshly.

"Fine," Minerva retorted and spun around so he wouldn't see her burning eyes. Gathering her things close to her chest, she left the library under the puzzled look of Madam Scrittura.

* * *

Outside, Minerva gasped for air and finally took a deep breath, squaring her shoulders and throwing her long hair over her shoulders. Making her way to Gryffindor, but foremost to the staircases, she was startled to hear a voice call out after her:

"Minerva! Minerva McGonagall!"

Turning around, she came face to face with the flushed visage of William Yaxley, a Fifth Year Ravenclaw. He was already sixteen, tall and fair-haired with slightly slanted green eyes. How lovely, a sarcastic part of her brain noted. Mother would certainly improve of a marriage to him, due to the simple fact that Yaxley was from a Pure-blood family. Plus he was one of the most sought-after singles at the whole school. Minerva had no idea what he could possibly need her for, and the meeting with him that would have left a lot of girls dizzy, just left her distinctly unimpressed and annoyed. She was not the kind of girl to swoon.

"Minerva," Yaxley started and the flush that was on his pale cheeks became even more prominent. "Would you like to-" He hesitated.

"Yes?" Minerva prompted curiously.  
"Would you like to accompany me to Hogsmeade next weekend?"

Minerva's brain registered the information only several seconds after the words had hung in the air, leaving her with a not very intelligent-sounding: "What?"

"Would. You. Like. To. Go. To. Hogsmeade. With...me?" Yaxley enunciated carefully.

In spite of herself, Minerva found the whole situation so hilarious that a hysterical giggle bubbled over her lips. Seeing Yaxley's quizzical look, she put him off.

"Well," she finally said. "Alright, but why?"

Yaxley bowed dramatically. "Oh, thy beauty has enthralled me, oh Lady," he proclaimed theatrically and again, Minerva couldn't suppress a laugh.

Unbeknownst to them, Tom was watching them from the shadows, quietly fuming. If Minerva had only known why Yaxley had asked her. It was just the result of a giant bet that encompassed all the Houses, involving some of the boys asking the ice queens of the school out on a date. Tom did not know what the price was, nor did he care to know. Minerva had somehow got herself the reputation of an unapproachable girl; however Tom knew that this was only due to her weird studying habits. She wasn't bad-looking, not at all, and again he exhaled sharply, balling his fists. He would make that Yaxley wish he had never asked her.

Why? He paused for a moment and pondered this. Angry though at Minerva he might be at the present moment, but that didn't change that she was a valuable asset to his plans and more importantly, that she was his. And no-one touched or harmed what was his. Determined, Tom strode towards the Slytherin dormitories. A plan was already forming in his head.

* * *

Minerva entered the girls' dormitories in a strangely elated mood, that was at the same time overshadowed by her earlier conflict with Tom. Sighing, she sank down in a red-upholstered armchair and listened to the sizzling of the flames that flickered merrily in the fireplace. Elma caught her eye from where she was sitting next to some of the other Gryffindor girl and winked at her. Minerva smiled back and looked away. A discarded magazine caught her attention. Cary Grant. She nearly snorted. It figured and it also fit to the herd of girls Elma was currently chatting with. Those belonged to the sort, who had their hair carefully-done in the latest US film star fashion and even wore lipstick. Minerva fingered her own, slightly limp and wavier curls and snorted again. If being like those girls was what it took to be popular with boys, she was not joining in, thank you very much. Her thoughts wandered to William Yaxley and she wondered why he had asked her. Nevertheless she couldn't fight a small small smile of anticipation. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad after all.

"Dear Minerva," a voice said suddenly in a rather grand fashion and Elma sank down in the armchair next to her. Minerva raised an eyebrow. "Heard anything new or interesting?" she asked and nodded in direction of the now giggling girls. "No," Elma replied, but she sounded rather absent-minded and Minerva wondered about it. Normally, her friend was more enthusiastic about such things.

"What are you thinking about?" she asked curiously.

Elma slowly smiled and Minerva felt unsettled.

"Christmas Soiree," Elma enunciated carefully.

"What?"

"Christmas Soiree," Elma repeated and the smile started to get wider, making her face rounder than usual.

"Christmas Soiree?!"

"Yes, Minerva." Elma sighed. "That means dances. And boys," she added, sounding casual, but the look in her eyes spoke volumes. Minerva stared at her disbelievingly. "You came all the way here to tell me about that?" she asked crossly. Her mood soured rapidly. After what happened with Tom and William, she had no particular desire to talk about boys.

"The most handsome boys of the whole school are staying over the holidays," Elma went on as if she hadn't heard or at least had simply ignored Minerva. "I am too, " she added dreamily. Minerva gave her an exasperated look. "Elma. We are fourteen years old. We won't find Wizard Charming at that soiree."

Elma squealed and threw her arms around a dumbfounded Minerva. "Oh! You realise this means you'll stay? Over the holidays?"

Minerva thought about it. "Well, I..." she began hesitatingly, but then stopped herself short, thinking again about her family Christmases. What did wait for her at home anyway? Silent Christmas dishes delivered mutely on cold plates and eaten with frigid silver cutlery? In that moment, Minerva's decision was made. "Well, yes," she said. "I am staying."

"Splendid!" Elma beamed. She came closer to Minerva with a secretive look in her eyes and in a tone that clearly said she believed that she was announcing the next Pope she whispered: "Guess who of the boys is staying?"  
In spite of herself, Minerva smiled. "Do tell," she said eventually. Elma's light blue eyes brightened.

"Just imagine....Jonathan Davies, Ravenclaw; Harold O'Reilly, Hufflepuff, Tom Riddle, Slytherin..."

"My Tom?" Minerva blurted out. Horrified, she slapped a hand over her mouth. What had she just said? But thankfully, Elma didn't look as if she had heard her. She just continued: "…Richard Prattle in our year is staying as well, but there are plenty of others. " Minerva meanwhile had not listened to her. Mortified she stared at the ground and felt how her cheeks flamed up. Her Tom?!

***

"But I'm just saying, we're fourteen years old, at the start of our dating lives….won't it be absolutely grand…?Minerva! Hey, Minerva, are you even listening? HELLO!"

Minerva' s gaze snapped up. She had not been listening, but covered her embarrassment up with a prim look that had served as her protection in so many situations already. Guessing what Elma had been talking about, she said: "Really, Elma it is not proper to talk that way. My mother doesn't even allow me a lipstick!"

Elma's look grew stormy and Minerva knew that she had just insulted her friend. Everyone knew that Elma was the only one in the whole Fourth Year to be allowed lipstick and so Minerva had just called her improper. For all her exuberance, Elma was educated in the tradition of the old Pureblood families and unlike Minerva, who abhorred their ideals due to the ways of her family Elma fully embraced the idea of purity, propriety and old lineages. Minerva refused to feel sorry for her comment, but she knew that she would do so later. She opened her mouth for a half-hearted apology, but Elma was quicker. Shaking her red locks she snapped: "You really are Minnie Mouse, aren't you? Enjoying the feel of parchment under your hands? Well, I hope you do because that is the only thing you'll ever have."

There was silence for a long moment and Minerva saw how the look of temporary satisfaction on Elma's face made way for dawning horror and guilt. To her own surprise, Minerva felt how tears started to fill up her eyes the second time that day. She may not see you cry, may not see you cry, a quiet inward voice chanted. Minerva got up, trying hard to keep herself from running.

"Minerva-"

But she didn't listen. No one would see her, Minerva McGonagall, cry. Never.

* * *

Later that evening, she was staring out into the night. It was silent and dark in the fourth year girls' dormitory. Her roommates were away- probably giggling about one Clark Gable poster or the other- while Minerva stood there, a hand fisting the heavy velvet material of the curtains, the other one on the cold stone of the window sill, smooth under her skin. She turned around to the room, leaning back into the curtains. The silence didn't do much for the atmosphere in the dormitory, making the random things lying around look like malevolent sleeping beasts, intent on pouncing on the one first disturbing the quiet.

Minerva held her breath and stared into the blackness. Suddenly, there was a hand on her arm and letting out a small terrified cry, she spun around to stare at a pale face. Tom.

"What the hell are you doing here?" She hissed.

He shrugged, a small smile nearly sickeningly triumphant on his face. "My secret."

Disconcerted, she pushed him away and faced the window instead, concentrating on the stars glittering above in the cold winter's night. Out of the sudden, a pale finger crept along her neck and trailed down her cheek, wiping away the lone tear that had unseeingly leaked from her eye.

"Stop it, Tom," she cried, pushing him away.

"Why?" he asked simply and not waiting for a reply, he continued. "Not joining the celebrations today, are you?" His crisp English accent only served to enhance his condescending tone and for once, she despised it, even though she usually liked listening to him speaking.

"No Tom, I am not, " she said tightly, trying to keep her temper in check.

The soles of his shoes made slight scraping sounds as he moved towards her. "Good. I would hate for you to do so."

In spite of her irritation, Minerva finally asked him for the why because she could see that he wouldn't budge.

"Why?" Tom scoffed. "Celebrating seems silly today, doesn't it, when the world as we know it is about to end. Can't you see it, Minerva? A cruel military force is on the march, controlled by a lunatic who can't be reasoned with. There are independence movements in India, Burma and oh, in countless other British colonies. No mighty Empire anymore, no sir, no." He laughed, an ugly sound.

"Your Empire doesn't concern me," Minerva replied firmly.

Tom laughed again, but this time it sounded almost pityingly. "The Scottish temper is showing through, alright. Don't you understand? It's not about the bloody Muggle Empire. Not for me anyway," he added, sounding thoughtful.

"What's it about then?" Minerva asked, crossing her and shivering in a sudden draught that came from the half-opened window.

"It's about power." Tom's voice was nearly meditative, his eyes glittering in the dark. "This world, Minerva, is breaking apart in front of our eyes. These are uncertain times. Who knows, we might even be speaking German tomorrow. So it's important to have power. It's all about power," he repeated and his face was just a pale spot in the darkness, as white as a ghost. The long fingers he had folded in a gesture that resembled praying were long and spidery, more like a skeleton' s fingers than those of Tom. Minerva couldn't stand the obsessed, cruel look in his eyes anymore that made shivers race down her spine and so she simply said: "I don't care, Tom. And I am going to Hogsmeade with William Yaxley this weekend, so I don't wish to see you then."

Tom rose from where he had sat down during her announcement. She could sense his anger.

"You don't want to see me this weekend? How dare you, Minerva? How dare you?"

"I had no idea we're joined at the hip, Tom," Minerva sniped back bravely, even though she was quivering inside and slowly backed off towards the window. And then he was suddenly in her face, eyes flashing madly like those of a feral animal and flashes of his pale, pale neck revealed by a sudden movement that unfastened his black robes.

"Get out!" Minerva choked. "Get out!"

With a dangerous look in his eye, he stormed away and slammed the door behind him. Gulping in desperate breaths, Minerva slid down to sit under the window sill. The silence, swiftly drawing back from the shadows where it had hidden immediately hit her with her own loneliness and helplessness and she hid her face in her calf-length skirt, trying to muffle her sobs. But the silence would not be defeated. It just stretched to accommodate her and when, finally, late evening the other girls returned Minerva didn't hear them for she had long since gone to bed.

* * *

**Hogsmeade Weekend, December 1939**

*****  
**

It was definitely not what Minerva had expected. Maybe she should have expected it, when hearing the name. "Dunking Daisies" hadn't sounded too respectable. But whatever she had thought of- it had not been this. "This" being a dark, somewhat run-down bar with candle-holders as substitutes for light. Magically-charmed candles flickered dimly. The small windows were barely see-through, mostly due to the layer of ice and caked dirt that covered them. The whole premises had a rather run-down, shabby feeling to it that hung in the air in the form of cigarette smoke and the stale air that comes from too much alcohol.

The sound of clinking china could be heard from the back room and muted voices drifted out from the corners. Faded posters hung on the walls, announcing passages to American cities from Southampton, long-since faded in history. Golden taps with old labels told of Ale, Guinness and several Continental marks. Minerva couldn't see the faces of the other customers because the cigarette smoke was too thick, drifting even out from underneath the doors. Peeled paint was accumulating on the ground and looking at the nicotine-stained formerly green walls, Minerva could see why.

"It's a cheap but lovely establishment, where we can get great non-alcohol drinks" William's voice said next to her ear. "Charming, isn't it?"

"Charming," Minerva repeated, trying to hold back her disbelief and failing. Words wouldn't come to her as she looked around the seedy room.

"It's a little-known bar," William whispered at her ear and feeling something wet, she wondered if it was his drool. Incredulous and disgusted, she finally settled for another dry: "Charming."

But even as she was still trying to take it all in, William's excessively hairy arms- she had always been disgusted by his arms- shot out and grabbed her around the waist. His lips crashed down on hers. Minerva forgot to breathe as she received her very first kiss from a boy. It was supposed to be a nice feeling, wasn't it? She was supposed to enjoy it, right? She knew that she should. After all, she, Minerva McGonagall was kissing William Yaxley....So, logically-speaking she should be elated now and endorphin should be distributed all over her body, triggered by the hypothalamus located in her inter-brain- Horrified she stopped short as she realised she was trying to analyse the brain functions that were supposed to be in process right now. Did kissing always feel so wet?

Alright. She should enjoy it. Breathing deeply through the nose, she winced as she smelled William. Literally, smelled him- because his breath was reeking of three-days-without-toothpaste. Minerva wrinkled her nose and suppressed another wince as he leaned back and then pressed his lips on hers again.

***

But then her eyes landed on the slender figure standing in the opened door. Even though she didn't know how he had found her, didn't even know if she was supposed to be happy to see him after what happened last night, she was. Tom.

Trying to break free, she was dismayed and startled to discover that William's grip on her body wouldn't waver. She tried to wriggle free, but he just held her tighter. Mild panic set in as his lips pressed tightly against hers. Minerva forgot to breathe and kicked and struggled.

Suddenly, William let her go, bending over nearly double and holding a very sensitive place. "Ouch!" he screamed. "It stings!"

Minerva looked between Tom and William. Tom was looking neutral, even though Minerva who had learned to read some of his expressions- not all, she doubted anyone was able to see completely through Tom's carefully-maintained mask- could detect a hint of smugness and amusement.

A tall man in a suit, a long dark coat and a hat tucked under his arm stepped out from behind Tom and Minerva saw that his wand was drawn as if he had just fired off a spell.

"William Yaxley?" he asked. William gave a jerky nod, still in pain by the looks of it. "You will come with me now. There are charges against you involving sexual harassment." William started to protest and pointed to the sensitive area the spell had hit but the man cut him off unsympathetically. " That's just a small stinging hex. You have to come with me. Now."

William obeyed and as the man took him away, he nodded to Tom and to Minerva: "Miss."

Then they were gone.

Rubbing her neck and her lips, Minerva stared after them, severely shaken-up. "What was that?" she asked finally in a trembling voice.

Tom didn't reply, but took her arm and led her outside.

"Come on," he said in a kind, unlike-Tom-voice. "Let's get a butterbeer at the Three Broomsticks. My treat."

Minerva allowed him to lead her. When they arrived in front of the pub, she finally asked: "What did really happen?"

Tom smiled an unpleasant smile." Let's just say that Malfoy has a father with good connections."

Minerva stopped and stared at him. "You set this up?"

Tom held his hand up, speaking rapidly. And after he had told her about the bet and in light of what had nearly happened to her, Minerva didn't even feel so bad about it anymore, even though that thought caused her enormous pangs of conscience as her Gryffindor disposition nagged at her. It was right what Tom had done, she told herself firmly. William wouldn't have released you. But still...

"He will be released soon, right?" she asked, trying to calm her inward voice.

"Oh sure," Tom replied lightly, but Minerva didn't hear him mutter: "Eventually."

* * *

Fifteen minutes later, they sat in the Three Broomsticks and sipped their lukewarm butterbeer.

"Why have you brought me here,Tom?" Minerva finally asked, shifting on her red-upholstered seat to get more comfortable.

"i wish to apologise," he began quietly. "I didn't mean to be so harsh last night." He gave her a smile and as usual, she just couldn't resist him when he was being earnest. "And thus..." he continued, encompassing the bar with his hand, but trailed off, obviously at a loss for words which was rare for him.

"And thus you brought me here to drink warm butterbeer and listen to off-key Christmas songs."

Tom raised a black eyebrow. "That's what you told me you'd enjoy," he reminded her, but his tone was friendly.

Minerva looked at him. She didn't reply. The candle cast a warmish light on Tom's face and looking at him, Minerva nearly forgot what had happened the night before. It stayed at the back of her mind, however, and for years to come it nagged at her. Only much, much later she would think back on it and see what had been in front of her all the time. However, at this moment she only looked at Tom and saw him, sitting there in front of her. She forgot about the war and Grindelwald and hard times. Right now it was alright.

"Are you alright?" Tom eventually asked.

Minerva gave him a smile, albeit a shaky one.

"I'm good, Tom," she replied finally. "I am good."

And sitting there, looking at him in the golden light with the comfortable lazy feeling of butterbeer swirling around in her stomach, she wondered what it would be like to kiss Tom Riddle.

* * *

_tbc-so what do you think? (=_


	6. 1940 Part I

_Hi! Oh dear, I realise it's been ages since I last updated this and I am really sorry! School tried to eat me...:P...no, but it was a lot of work in the last months. We had to write a 20-pages-essay about a specific topic- mine was the Great Depression in the USA. That unfortunately killed my spare time and whenever I was free, all I could think about was the American industrial output in the 1930s, so I thought that it probably wouldn't be fair to you if I wrote a new chapter in that strange mood. However, now I've finished the new chapter and I hope you like it...the next one should come very soon as I have holidays in two weeks. Thank you for your wonderful reviews, **VanillaFieldsOfGold**, **tartan-angel**, **Delilah Anne Marie** and **Charlieaus** ! Hopefully someone is still reading this story S-:...please tell me what you think about this update! I hope that they are still all in character..._

_-Sachita (-;  
_

* * *

**Chapter Five**

**Hogwarts, Christmas Soiree, 1939**

Christmas had rolled around earlier than expected this year, Minerva thought, and watched happy couples sway to the beat of American jazz music. From where she was sitting, she had a good view of the whole room. Mistletoes in over-abundance hung from the ceiling, sometimes gently moving along with some imaginary wind breeze or the other.

The ceiling had been charmed to represent a starry winter sky. There were even thick white snowflakes falling toward the ground and the dancing couples only to dissolve somewhere in the middle for no apparent reason. Minerva, fascinated by the complexity of the charms, had spent hours loitering around in the Great Hall watching the teachers fire off spell after spell only to be chased away by the caretaker, Mr. Penibel. Still, being fascinated by the preparations for the Soiree did not explain why she had come to the actual event, sitting all by herself at a table.

Minerva scoffed darkly and adjusted her position on one of the chairs adjacent to the tables at the sidelines of the dance floor. All pupils from fourth form up were invited, so why shouldn't she come? It was a rule that made the fourth-graders feel adult and superior to the younger students, who were only allowed to come if they had been invited to dance by someone older than them. Thus, Minerva was present too, even though she had no dance partner. Another scowl crossed her face, when it occurred to her how lame this reason sounded to her own ears.

„All alone tonight, Miss McGonagall?" She looked up from where she had been brooding over a pint of butterbeer and smiled when she found the twinkling blue eyes of Professor Dumbledore looking at her. "Yes, Professor." He smiled gently: "Well, I daresay, the young men here are just not good enough for you." Minerva's smile became genuine, as she noticed how the Professor tried to comfort her without actually saying so about something that she didn't even need to be comforted about.

There had been an offer or two, but she had always declined. Few boys had approached her- she was not like any of the other girls- giggly, adorned with lipstick and supremely superficial and silly- and thus, many probably thought her boring. She did not care, had never cared for shallowness. The few offers she had got had been from some Hufflepuff boys and a Ravenclaw who had not found someone else. Still, she had not sunk quite as far as that. Minerva would never settle for being second-best, and that was exactly why she had also declined those offers.

Sitting here, now, sipping at her butterbeer, she had to admit that it was getting to be a little tiresome. She might know why she had declined the offers, but others didn't, thus she was the recipient of many looks that night; some pitying, some smug. Why had she even come?

Professor Dumbledore, who had been sitting silently next to her so far, remarked, effectively shaking her out of her musings, "Your friend Miss Gladys seems to be enjoying herself."  
Minerva looked over to Elma, who, swathed in pink tulle that clashed horribly with her red hair, was swung around by the Captain of the Hufflepuff Quidditch Team.

"Yes," she said placidly.

Dumbledore nodded and got up slowly. "Well, I'll see who else an old man can find to annoy here," he stated. "Take care, Miss McGonagall."

"Bye, sir," Minerva replied and cut her eyes back from his retreating form to stare at the couple she had been staring at all evening if she was honest with herself.

It was Tom- no, not Tom. Riddle, dancing with Myleena O'Reilly, Slytherin.

She was beautiful, of course, Minerva mused sardonically. It had been Tom who had asked her in spite of her being older than him- he could have had any of the Slytherin girls and probably also a lot of the female members of the other houses. But he had chosen Myleena, which was only to be expected. Tom only settled for the best- and Myleena was undisputedly one of the best-looking girls of the whole school.

Myleena with her sleek blond hair expertly pulled up in an elegant knot- Minerva tugged at her own black strands haphazardly tied up in a messy bun. Myleena with the perfect make-up that added weight to her blue gaze- Minerva had snagged one of the other Gryffindor girls' lipsticks for this special occasion, feeling as if she had committed a crime when she had put it down. And Myleena, Myleena with curves all in the right places, even though she was Minerva's age- Minerva looked down at herself and sighed. No. She was definitely not going there.

Suddenly she froze mid-motion as it dawned on her what she had been doing. She had been comparing herself to Myleena, who was currently dancing with….Tom…with Riddle. Oh dear. That meant…Downing her butterbeer in one go, she shot to her feet. Few spared her a glance as she exited the Hall hastily, her dignity being the only thing that kept her from running.

However, a pair of dark blue eyes followed her.

Several students glanced up as a loud shout of "Ouch!" followed by several curses that made some of the more conservative teachers gasp, interrupted the dance. Myleena, with the long train of her elegant dress torn by the shoes of her dance partner, glared at the aforementioned, who was standing frozen in place, eyes fixed on the exit.

"What is the bloody matter with you, Riddle?" she shrieked, all perfection forgotten as red blotchy spots appeared on her cheeks, a sure sign of her anger. Several male students grinned at the spectacle- many of them had been put down by Myleena before and now enjoyed her misfortune- an activity that had been dubbed "schadenfreude", a word that had been around for about twenty or thirty years now. Everyone was only slowly getting used to it, but no one could deny that it filled a hole in the English language many had not even been aware of. Some other girls' expressions were filled with that very word as well; it was written on their faces in bold letters. Myleena was not a gentle soul- in fact, a lot of the students would have found quite nasty words to describe her if asked and so no one felt particularly sorry for her.

"Nothing," Tom finally replied coolly to Myleena's query and left her alone in the middle of the dance floor, ignoring her outraged cries. Upon passing Abraxas Malfoy, Riddle lifted a cool eyebrow and the blond boy nodded. Satisfied, Tom disappeared, knowing that Abraxas would take care of the din the girl was making. It was an even better feeling than he had thought to have them all groveling at his feet. He was not sure where he was going with their devotion, but he'd sure find a way to use it one day. For now he was content with them obeying him. A small smirk graced his face as he thought of how he had showed them his power…but no, he was not going there now.

Minerva. Right. Hesitating, he paused on his way to the Gryffindor dormitory. Finally coming to a decision, he shook his head and changed direction. Minerva would have to wait. She couldn't have the impression that he was paying attention to her every mood- even though he was, he admitted to himself with a disgusted sneer at his own weakness. But she could not know. He had other things to do than dote on her at any rate- the restricted section of the library had long since become a favourite haunt of his. The restriction spells merely constituted a minor hindrance for him these days and Tom smiled, as he fingered his wand with pale fingers. He was destined for greatness and he knew it.

Minerva, meanwhile, was standing in front of a mirror, or better, the mirror. The fourth year girls' dormitory only had this one mirror, which had led to many catfights in the past. Now, however, she was all alone. The dormitory was dark and silent. Minerva stared at her reflection and fought the sour taste of bile in her throat. Having spent the last quarter of an hour throwing up her meals of the last three days- or so it had felt to her- she was not in the best moods and it showed in her expression.

She was pale and dark bruised rings surrounded her blood-shot green eyes. Her dark hair was hanging loosely around her face, sticking up at odd ends. She groaned, feeling queasy.

"That's what too much butterbeer imbibed in too short a time does to a stomach not habituated to alcoholic drinks, my dear," the mirror said sympathetically.

Minerva nearly fell backwards on her behind and shrieked. Having recovered her wits, she glared though she felt a little silly staring at herself like that. "Since when do you talk?"

The mirror giggled. Minerva had the disconcerting feeling that it was a she-mirror.

"I have always been able to talk, but I often chose not to." The mirror paused. "You look sick, child. Maybe you should consider lying down."

"I am not tired," Minerva snapped. Then she groaned. "I am confiding into a mirror. How much worse can it get?"

"That's how I feel sometimes, too, dear," the mirror assured her cheerfully. "Especially when communicating with my cousins."

"Wait a minute." Minerva raised an eyebrow at her reflection. "You mirrors talk among each other?"

"Of course!" The she-mirror, and yes, Minerva had decided, that it most certainly was a she-mirror, stated indignantly. "How little intelligence do you think we mirrors possess after all?"

Minerva, choosing not to answer that question, asked quickly: "Do you perchance know what Tom Riddle is up then? If he is in the vicinity of one of your cousins?"

"Tom Riddle? Dark-haired young Slytherin, Third Year?" The mirror inquired politely.

"That's him." Minerva nodded, fully expecting that she would soon get the reply that Tom was happily dancing the night away in the Great Hall.

"Sure, sure, wait a minute." The mirror abruptly became blind and Minerva stared, aghast, at her now shadowy reflection. She shook her head once more. "It can't get much worse than that…"

The mirror cleared its throat- or at least it sounded like it. "Dearie, your friend is currently in the restricted section of the library. Silly child, delving into dark corners like that. You should keep away from him."

"Who are you, my mother?" Minerva snapped, ignoring the little nagging voice that told her that the mirror's concerns were nothing but justified.

The mirror sounded a little insulted. "Only trying to look out for you."

Minerva groaned. She had no energy left for this. Chancing a last glare at her reflection, she muttered moodily: "I look like a bloody witch."

"You are a witch, darling," the reply came even as Minerva slammed the bathroom door shut behind her.

Sinking on her bed, she closed her eyes against the gentle spinning of the room. So Tom was in the restricted section of the library. She had always thought that he had been there at least once before- sometimes his amount of knowledge had dumbfounded her, since she had been sure that he not acquired it in the usual books available at the library. Well, now she had her answer. Minerva stemmed herself up on her elbows, suddenly appalled at herself. She had not even contemplated going to Professor Dumbledore with her newly acquired piece of knowledge, had only thought of how much this helped her to decipher the literal Riddle at hand. What only intensified her disgust and insurrection at herself was, however- she was still not thinking of confiding in Professor Dumbledore.

_What on earth had she become?_

* * *

**Hogwarts, January 1940**

The icy January winds whipped angry snow cascades up and pelted ice chunks against the windows of the proud castle.

It had been icy and snowy for weeks now and the Scottish countryside was frozen in wintry silence. Everyone did their best to stay inside, as the harsh winds bit and stung even through multiple layers of clothing.

Minerva, currently seated in one of the school's classrooms, tried to hide a yawn. Bored she traced the smooth surface of the tabletop and tried hard to follow the Professor's words. Professor Accuratore, as always impeccably dressed in a long dark cloak that was v-shaped and allowed only small glimpses of the pristine white wife-beater he was wearing underneath and the bow-tie, which looked like an extension of the Professor's pudgy chin, was making very important-looking hand-gestures and talking animatedly. It was however, more of a monologue, or even a soliloquy, as no one seemed to be listening.

Deducing that he was still yammering on about the charm that made cats speak and the possible consequences, which was an excerpt from an essay by an Australian wizard named McLeigh published sometime last century that Minerva had avidly perused- but that had been months ago and so she didn't wish to hear it again- she concentrated again on the tabletop.

She had been doing something for her education in her free time, thank you very much, so why did she have to hear it again? Couldn't there be a regulation that allowed students to leave whenever they felt that they knew all about the current lesson topic? Logically examined, it would make sense. Minerva was drafting a petition regarding her problem in her head, when the door suddenly opened with a loud thud.

Professor Accuratore twitched. Minerva, fully expecting one of his volatile rants, raised herself into a sitting position in interest. But the rant didn't come, only the Professor's mustache quivered in poor restraint. No second later, Minerva could see the reason for his silence, as Headmaster Dippet stepped into the room.

"Excuse our intrusion, Professor," he offered. Our intrusion? Minerva raised an eyebrow, wondering if the Headmaster was speaking of himself in pluralis majestetis. "But," the Headmaster continued, "I find myself in need of your assistance."

"Yes?" Professor Accuratore barked roughly, still indignant about having been interrupted in the middle of what he liked to call "vital speeches". There were some snickers.

Noticing his lack of respect, he tacked on a "Yes, Sir?"

Dippet turned around an indicated the herd of black-clad pupils gathered behind him to come into the room. Slytherin Third Years, Minerva realised uneasily with a look at their green-and-silver ties. She shifted in her seat and saw several other Gryffindors do the same. Mixing Slytherins and Gryffindors was never a good idea.

"I am leaving them under your supervision for the time being. Professor Tanner has fallen sick and we don't have staff to spare."  
Professor Accuratore, clearly thrown off at that invasive interruption of his lesson, coughed.

"Well," he intoned strictly, American accent coming to the fore, "you heard the Headmaster. Find a seat, all of you."

The Slytherins complied reluctantly, casting contemptuous looks at the Gryffindors as they did so.

Minerva only looked up when a thump indicated that someone had slid into the empty seat next to her- Elma had preferred to sit somewhere else in the last weeks.

"Tom," she acknowledged flatly, not even looking up.

"Minerva." The smirk was audible.

She didn't look at him, just kept on ignoring him. Another sound came from her right- it sounded suspiciously like a poorly repressed laugh. "What do you want, Riddle?"

"I want to know why you are ignoring me."

Minerva glared at him. "I am not ignoring you."

"Not right now, no," Tom pointed out. His face had lost its amusement and his dark eyes searched hers intensely. Minerva felt how her face flushed under his scrutiny and his stare changed to something bordering on hungry. She was reminded of a snake fixating its prey- or a magpie intent on getting to the jewelry on a rich woman's wrist.

"Stop staring," she snapped, trying to cover up her sudden discomfort.

"Whatever you say." The amusement was back, making his eyes dance in his ridiculously handsome face. He had adapted to the latest hairstyle sometime over the last weeks and the wavy dark fringe hid his renewed glee largely from view as he turned away from her and her annoyed snort.

Minerva, pointedly turning away from him, too, tried to concentrate again on Professor Accuratore's words. Why was she ignoring him? A good question. She had been doing so since the Soiree, but why she had done so was something that she didn't know. Or she did know, but she did not want to admit it to herself. Annoyed, this time at herself, she eventually sighed. Fine. It was because of him. She, Minerva McGonagall, had a crush on Tom Bloody Riddle. Fantastic.

Someone glared holes into her side. "Didn't Professor Tanner give you some additional work so you won't get bored while he is sick?"she growled.

"Oh, he did." Tom sounded cheerful, but when she looked over to him, his face betrayed nothing of his mirth. "I finished it already. Wasn't that hard."

Minerva went back to ignoring him. Professor Accuratore was ranting at the front:"…so the charm to make cats speak is a complex one, but it can be learned in six easy steps. The first incantation begins with the vowel "a", but not spoken like the common "a" rather like the "a" in the Latin word "addo", which is also the first part of the charm…followed by "adepto", meaning to acquire, to obtain…"

Minerva, her irritation forgotten, turned to Riddle. He was looking back at her and she raised an eyebrow at him, while he nodded. So he did also think that-

"Professor!" No! What on earth was the idiot doing?  
"Tom," she hissed. "You can't…"

"Yes- Mr. Riddle, is it?"

"Yes, sir." Tom's charming façade was all in place, but Minerva could see the cunning glimmer in his eyes. "You mixed the order of the charm up, sir."

Minerva could practically see how the Professor's anger mounted. First only one vein in his forehead was pulsing- a terrifying, angry red- and then a second one started to appear next to the first.

"Well-done," someone whispered behind them. "The old geezer is about to have a heart attack."

"Mr. Riddle!" Professor Accuratore all but roared. "You are not allowed to interrupt my lesson with your disqualified remarks! This charm is barely covered by a Fourth-Year's knowledge, so, pray tell me, boy, how you could even know what it entails!"

Minerva felt her hackles rise. She despised injustice, had always despised it. And this was injustice as Tom was clearly right. "But Professor-"

"No Miss McGonagall! I am disappointed with you! Detention, both of you! You start with your detention now and you stop only when I tell you! Come along!" It was five minutes before the lesson ended- it was the last lesson for today, so Professor Accuratore did not have to worry about removing two pupils from one of his colleagues' classes.

There was absolute silence and Minerva felt how her face turned beet-red. Detention! She had never had any form of punishment in school before. Tom next to her looked nonchalant and he stood up indifferently. Some of the Slytherins, Minerva noted, looked at him with something akin to hero worship. The Gryffindors, however, stared at her in undiluted shock. Some of them whispered among each other. She stood up on wobbly legs and felt how she grew more and more humiliated witch each step she had to take. When she got outside, to where Tom was already standing next to Professor Accuratore, she was shaking.

They marched to an empty classroom in stony silence. Minerva dared not look up. She had never been more ashamed in her entire life than in that moment. The Professor turned to them when they had stepped into the classroom.

"You'll scrub the whole floor and you won't use your wands as I will confiscate them," he hissed in white-faced anger and extended his hand with an impatient look. Minerva handed her wand over in ashamed silence; Tom's stare was defiant. "Come on, boy," Professor Accuratore growled, "shall we take this to the Headmaster?"

"Tom," Minerva whispered with a sinking feeling.

Tom finally relented and gave the wand to the Professor, not without a dark glare.

Pocketing the wands, the Professor stared them down, which was an easy feat considering that he had at least three heads on Minerva and two and a half on Tom. "When I return there shall be stainless stones! Stainless stones!" With that, he strode out of the door.

"Stainless Stones?" Tom shook his head and laughed. "That bloody fool shouldn't be waxing poetry."

Minerva, however, had a bone to pick with him. "You landed us in detention, Riddle!" she yelled.

He lifted an elegant eyebrow. "We landed ourselves in detention, separately," he pointed out.

"I only got myself into this mess because I was trying to help you!" There was a place beyond anger and Minerva could feel herself steadily heading there. She was trembling and tried to control herself by balling her hands into fists. Tom's mocking face was but a pale shape in a sea of red fury around her vision.

"Oh?" Tom queried disdainfully.

"Yes, Oh!" Minerva couldn't have said why she was getting so worked up about all this, but the last month had been one of the worst in her entire life- being ignored by Elma, that nightmarish Christmas Soiree, now the detention- somehow, Tom seemed to fit as the culprit in all cases. And everything because she had cared. Minerva had had few friends growing up wind-dishevelled and red-faced in the lonely, roughly beautiful wilderness of the Scottish Highlands save for their faithful House Elf and the odd meeting with muggle children, acquaintances that she hadn't been allowed to keep for long. Elma had been the first real friend she had had.

People just didn't approach her on their own volition. She was not sure how to deal with them and often covered it up with sternness and seriousness- the Highlands had taught her a lot about pride, majesty and the beauty of an undisturbed sunrise, but not how to deal with jest and laughter. "Minnie Mouse" had been her nickname all too soon, but it was not as if she were shy: she just didn't know how to deal with people. And then Tom had come along. Tom Riddle, smart, infuriating, handsome, yet at the same time cold and unapproachable. In spite of her own doubts, she had let him in and now he was repaying it to her with disdain?

Helplessly, aiming to draw him out of his mask, she spat at him: "I know what you did!"

"Oh? And what would that have been?"he asked crisply.

If she hadn't been so angry, she might have taken a moment to reflect on her words. As it were however, she didn't think long before replying furiously:

"You have been reading books from the restricted section of the library!"

Tom's expression abruptly became shuttered; the smug smile disappeared. He let his hand sink that he had lifted in animated speech and prowled, there was no other word to describe it, closer. Minerva shivered under his hard gaze, but did not back down.

"Know that, do you?" he asked nearly gently, but it was the kind of gentle calm that prevails before a storm strikes.

"Yes," Minerva squeaked and hated herself for it.

"Well, you're not about to blab, are you?" Tom queried, slowly walking around her. Minerva stared straight ahead with burning eyes, pale and motionless and yet Tom kept on circling her again and again until he suddenly stopped and-  
"ARE YOU?" he thundered abruptly.

" No," she very nearly whimpered. "I am not."

"Good," he purred like a sated cat. In that moment Minerva hated him. "You want to share, right?" he suddenly asked curiously. "Take a look at those books yourself."

His warm breath ghosted over her neck, but Minerva shook his spell off.

"Go scrub the floor, Tom," she tossed over her shoulder and thrust a mop in his hand, casually moving away to get a bucket of water. Glancing over her shoulder, she saw his disconcerted expression and in spite of her shaking hands, she couldn't help the slow smile of triumph that spread over her face, nearly sickeningly sweet and satisfying like too much honey spread on too little bread.

* * *

**Hogwarts, March 1940**

Minerva sat with a quill in the hand on the window sill, gazing outside into the black night. Behind her, the other girls were giggling and chatting among each other, yet Minerva ignored them. Black drops of ink splattered the parchment, above which the quill was hovering shakily. She exhaled noisily and her dark hair, hanging loosely around her face , swung along to the soft breeze coming from the opened window.

"Close the window, will you, Minerva?" one of the other girls called. It was Aimee, whom Minerva was somewhat fond of as she proved to be relatively reasonable sometimes.

"Yes," she called back taciturnly and closed the window with a sigh, leaning against the cool surface of the glass. Closing her eyes, she thought on what had happened today…it already had the unreal quality of a dream to her- or maybe rather a nightmare.

* * *

The cold stones had felt alive under Minerva's searching hands. She had shivered, as her breath had formed bizarre ghostly clouds in the frigid air, barely visible in the greenish light of the old hallways.

Minerva had never cared much for the cold dungeons of the Slytherins- they were all green light, cold air and silver stones; as opposed to the golden fire, candlelight and red tapestry of her Gryffindor realm.

"Tom?" she had called shakily, wincing as her voice echoed strangely in the silence.

Sarah Dubois had told her where she might find Tom- Sarah had always been rather helpful for a Slytherin, Minerva had reflected as she had made her way through the hallways.

There had been no reply, but then she had thought to have heard something- a slight hissing sound maybe, or the sound water makes when released from a water tap. Carefully, Minerva had inched closer and had peered around the corner- to make the most horrifying discovery.

A figure had been kneeling on the ground in a dark robe- it had taken her some time to determine that it had indeed been Tom. Something had prevented her from calling out to him though. He had been focused on something in front of him, while he had turned his back to her, crouching on the ground. But then he had turned in her direction and she had frozen where she had stood.

The light of the candle standing next to him on the ground had cast flickering shadows on the wall opposite of him and Minerva had squinted to make out the small shadow next to Tom. As he had moved aside a bit, however, she had been able to see that it had been a spider. Tom had been pointing his wand at her….and Minerva had never heard any spider make a sound, but she could have had sworn, that the spider was _screaming. _Screaming and in obvious pain.

The expression on Tom's face had been hard to read for his face had been mostly shrouded in darkness, but when he looked up and the light of the candle fell on him, Minerva had been able to see that it was a twisted mixture of disgust, something indefinable- and pleasure. She had looked again to make sure, but there had been no mistaking it. It had been sheer delight on his face as he had looked at the writhing spider.

Minerva had whirled around and she had run away as fast as her legs had carried her. Once back in Gryffindor, she had thrown up. Afterwards, she had walked over to the window sill and that was where she had been sitting since then, a dripping quill in her hand and a blank expression on her face.

* * *

Sighing, she finally got up. "It's way past bedtime, Minerva," Aimee called. "Why don't you go to sleep as well?"

"Yeah," another disgruntled voice, that of Mary, piped up. "We are trying to sleep, you know."

Elma was silent. Minerva didn't reply to the others, but she changed into her nightclothes and crawled under the cover after a quick trip to the bathroom. She couldn't sleep however. The screams of the spider- or whatever that horrendous noise had been- kept ringing in her ears.

Later that evening Minerva lay safely cocooned in her mound of blankets in her bed, listening to the regular breathing of the other girls and clutching her blanket with sweaty hands. On the bed locker next to her the light shape of a roll of parchment glared at her. It said "Professor Dumbledore, Sir, I have something to tell you and I only can do it in written form", but it had not yet been completed.

Minerva carefully made a grasp for that roll of parchment, but when her fingers touched it, she withdrew her hand hastily. She did not touch it again, but was lying motionlessly in her bed for a long time afterward, staring with burning eyes into the darkness.

* * *

_tbc..._


	7. 1940 Part II

_Hi! I'm back :P First of all, thank you for your wonderful reviews, **Queen Nefertiti**, **VanillaFieldsOfGold** and **Delilah**! It is so wonderful that I still have reviewers left after the huge amount of time that has passed. Originally, I planned to squeeze in far more in this chapter and what was supposed to be one chapter, has somehow developed into three parts. This chapter is the first one. _

_Something that I noticed (and that annoys me quite a lot): According to the Harry Potter Wiki, Minerva McGonagall attended Hogwarts from 1937 to 1944, and Tom Riddle attended Hogwarts from 1938 to 1945. However, seeing that Minerva for example is born in October 1925, I thought that she would have started school in 1936 already...Apparently they have both attended Hogwarts a year later than one might think- probably due to their birthdays being late in the year. But to change that would mix some things in the chapters up, so I'm afraid I'll have to leave it as it is and hope that you'll bear with me (-;_

_Please tell me what you think of this update. I hope you like it._

_Greetings,_

_Sachita (-;  
_

* * *

**Chapter Six**

**Hogwarts, April 1940**

Small chunks of ice and the odd ice floe or two, nearly submerged in the icy water of the lake, floated past Minerva's dull gaze. Apathetically, she watched how a water skeeter chased ripples across the calm surface of the water. The sound of dripping condensation water rivalled the crackling of the thawing branches and twigs all around her. A Miracle Crocus suddenly popped up next to where she was sitting- it was named Miracle Crocus for these flowers had the trait to appear out of the sudden and unfold their whole glory in a matter of seconds. This one was no exception. Minerva looked at it in something akin to awe, as it revealed brilliantly blue and red-hued petals, sending sparkling droplets of water everywhere as it did so. A sharp gust of wind made her look away quickly and draw her coat tighter around herself. Her expression became shuttered again as she stared in the distance.

Not having reported Tom's actions gnawed at her- as it should- she reminded herself sternly. She had taken to avoiding him in the last weeks and Minerva was sure that he had already noticed. It was only a matter of time until he would seek her out to talk to her about her current behaviour and this was not a discussion she was looking forward to. Plus, she had taken to avoiding Professor Dumbledore as well, at least as well as she could avoid a teacher who taught her every second day. Him she was not sure about- whether he had noticed her behaviour or not. On the other hand, she reflected wearily, her favourite Professor had always had a soft spot for her – and he ought to have noticed that she had not spoken to him about arranging one of their monthly sessions again. Those sessions were something that Minerva usually looked forward to, for they often included an excessive amount of tea, lemon drops, cookies and invigorating conversations. It was more than odd for a teacher to have that kind of relationship with a pupil and she knew that, but those sessions with the possible greatest wizard of all times and a person she admired very much meant a lot to her, and so she did not care if she was ridiculed because of them.

No, Minerva thought morosely, her life was not going all that well at the moment. Elma was still not talking to her and Minerva refused to concede to something that had not even been her fault in the first place. Instead she had to observe how the red-head drifted ever further away from her, joining the ranks of the "lipstick-and-suspender-belts-girls", as Minerva liked to call them in her head. Or even out loud- she had no problem with antagonizing them. Rose Wilkins, from Ravenclaw, whom she had sometimes exchanged friendly words with, now had a boyfriend and was behaving like an imbecile. And Andrew, Minerva's beloved elder brother, was far away in Australia. It was nearly impossible to reach him. No, she was alone. All alone.

Alright, there was Myrtle. Myrtle, the little Ravenclaw who constantly followed her around and could not leave her alone. She was younger than most of the Students- "my birthday is late in the year" she had told Minerva in a stage-whisper once- and thus, being younger and socially somewhat awkward, Myrtle was often picked upon by her fellow students. But no matter what Myrtle seemed to think, Minerva was not a charity institution. Thus she had taken to trying to be alone with her thoughts for the last weeks - and one of her favourite haunts was the lakeside- here Myrtle had not found her yet. Minerva sighed. She tolerated Myrtle for she pitied the girl a bit, but she saw her as more of a nuisance than anything else. Minerva's conscience admonished her for her thoughts, but she merely sighed impatiently: "I have other bloody problems- she should be the least of my worries right now. And I have never claimed to be a bloody saint."

"But you have never claimed to be crazy either, have you, Minnie?"

It was a well-known voice to her: polished, crisp and cold. She really didn't wish to talk to him, but she also knew that ignoring him just would not do. Tom had ways of making people talk to him. "Tom. How have you found me?"

He settled down next to her nonchalantly and stretched his long feet out. Minerva tensed as she gazed at his smooth pale features and shuddered involuntarily as she remembered the sick delight etched on his face as he had tortured that spider.

"You weren't that hard to find," he replied superiorly. "One simply has to follow the sounds and one will find the crazy person talking to herself, which would obviously be you."

"Whatever," Minerva snapped back irritably. "Can't you just leave?"

Tom fixed her with a cool glare and Minerva tried her best to muster it. Tom's glares had always been intimidating- this one was not different. "Not until you tell me what's going on with you."

"Why do you even care?" Minerva retorted and leaned back, feeling the wet soggy earth on her skin as she dug her fingers into the mud.

"I thought we once established that we are friends, Minerva," Tom whispered and leaned closer. His breath sent shivers down Minerva's spine and she twisted away from him. "Now..." he paused. "What about telling me what is going on with you?"

And just like that; he had her. Whilst Tom could be intimidating and even quite scary at times, Minerva had never been revered by him or awed due to his abilities and knowledge. Maybe that was why she did feel a certain healthy amount of fear, yet lacked the self-preservative barrier that kept other people from saying their thoughts out loud. Minerva had always been someone to tell people straight out what her opinion of them was, something that had made her some enemies along the way of her short life. Now was not different.

"I don't associate with people who torture innocent animals," she snapped and wished for a moment she hadn't opened her mouth. Tom's face became expressionless in the pale spring light. He might have as well been an alabaster statue for all his lack of emotion.

"Have you been spying on me?" he asked slowly.  
Minerva defiantly ignored the inward voice telling her urgently that this was shaping up to be a worse idea by the minute and ploughed on recklessly: "Not spying, just using my perfectly healthy eyesight."

Tom laughed. A sparrow took wing at that sudden sound. Minerva could only stare at him in silent astonishment. Had he gone mad? At her look, he threw his head back and laughed louder, seeming genuinely amused.

"Would you mind telling me what is going on in that twisted brain of yours, Riddle?" she asked snidely. Her self-preservation alarm was still ringing, possibly louder than before but she couldn't have cared less. She had already gotten herself in too deep this time.

Tom was still chuckling lightly, but his amused gaze abruptly snapped back to her at her words. His expression, still much too mature for his age, became serious but Minerva saw the humorous gleam linger in his eyes.

"You are too much of a Gryffindor, Minnie," he explained. "I can't help my amusement. Oh if only you knew what my housemates think of me..."

"What do they think of you, Tom?" she challenged.

"Wouldn't you like to know?" he parried smoothly. "I'm afraid you're not privy to that information."

Minerva balled her fists and sprang to her feet, dusting her skirt off. "Whatever, Tom, I'm going to report you now."

She would have expected anything and she tensed up inside, waiting for his reaction, while her hand strayed to the pocket she kept her wand in. But she didn't expect him to remain seated, looking at her calmly.

"Before you do so," he began quietly, "would you mind telling me what I have done wrong?"

That was too much. Minerva gasped: "What you have done wrong? What you have done _wrong_? Tom, you can't go around experimenting on animals, inflicting harm on them-"

"Why not?"

He was serious! Minerva's heart raced suddenly. Oh dear Merlin, he was really serious. She couldn't believe it, but the expression in his eyes was sincere and nearly childlike curious, as he watched her intently. Was it just an act or was it the way he had been brought up that made him so insensitive to what was the norm for nearly everyone? If he was serious and not just playing her, then how could she make him understand that what he had done was not only wrong but sickening?

Minerva thought about how to relay the problem at hand to a mastermind like Tom. The part of her that was still horrified she shoved ruthlessly aside and tried to look at the matter objectively. But this, she reflected, was sort of hypocritical as well. How could she defend the position she believed in so ardently if she looked at it in a purely objective way?

Avoiding the thought for the moment for Tom's dark blue eyes were looking at her with expectancy and mild annoyance, she thought about what he might understand. What would Tom, whose mind worked in so twisted, strange and even scary ways understand?

"Well, Tom," she said eventually, "look at it this way: That spider is just like you. You are matter, it is matter. You're neither higher, nor lower than it, so how can you justify being in control over that spider?" Her own argumentation disgusted her, but Tom, she saw, was looking pensive.

Finally he crossed his arms and looked at her levelly.

"A good point, Minerva, but you have to take into consideration that matter is neutral. So my actions should not be judged, least by you, since you are nothing but matter in the end as well."

"No!" Minerva cried in agitation after he had finished. "We are humans, Tom. Creatures with feelings, creatures who know about empathy, love, friendship!"

Suddenly Tom looked smug and superior, as if he knew something that she didn't.

"Animals, Minerva," he uttered coolly, "have feelings, too. That destroys your beautiful theory and makes us neutral once more."

Minerva felt as if she had run a marathon and her skin felt hot. She was sure that she looked flushed and feverish, but it was merely due to her inner state of disquiet.

"Humans, Tom," she took a deep breath and tried to get herself under control, "have ethics. Not like animals. We have moral. We do not kill needlessly-"

Here Tom interrupted her. He had been watching her throughout their debate, pale and silent, and when he had spoken, his voice had been calm and controlled. Now, however, it seemed to crack just a little bit, but if it that was due to an inner state of agitation or just spoke of the cold or the changes his body was currently going through, Minerva couldn't have said.

"So pray tell me, Minerva, how do you explain the war that is currently raging then? Doesn't matter which one."

"It's not like that, Tom," Minerva cried in helplessness, not knowing how or where to start explaining her point of view to him. "Even if the whole world should go mad-"she searched for words and started again, "even if all should fail and end, we ought not to be like that as well. We have to be pillars of strength in a sea of injustice, Tom." She breathed harshly.

Tom's voice was rough. "That all sounds very nice and noble and so Gryffindor of you, Minnie," he growled lowly, "but I am no bloody saint, nor am I a bloody archangel. I am egoistic and I will admit to it any time. That spider wanted to live. I want to live. So we are at odds and forgive me for being adamant about staying alive. Of course that point doesn't apply to that particular spider, mind you, but I trust you are smart enough to have figured that out all by yourself already, Minerva."

"The spider didn't attack you, Tom," Minerva tried, regaining some of her own cool.

"Well then grow up, Minerva." Tom's voice had a nearly desperate, pleading quality which was odd, but Minerva had long given up to be surprised by Tom's ways. "It didn't attack me, that's right, but you have missed the point I was trying to make earlier. Who says that I won't encounter a spider or another being that is intent on killing me once? I have to learn how to defend myself and trust me when I say that I will not ever be oppressed by anyone. Thus, I have to be stronger than all of them. I have to be better than all of them. I have to be the best. Then no-one will be able to harm me."

Oddly enough, even though Minerva knew that she had to feel anger at what he implied with his words, she could not bring herself to it. Instead, she was surprised to feel pity rise up in her. "I feel sorry for you, Tom, that you think this way," she said softly.

Tom's face twisted into an ugly sneer. "Well," he said coldly, all traces of desperation gone, "you shouldn't. I don't want pity from anyone- and least of all from you."

The anger was back. "If you don't want my pity, Tom," Minerva growled: "Tell me one thing: Did you at least know that what you did was wrong?"

He shrugged. A small smile played on his pale lips. "I know that the majority of the wizard population would deem my actions cruel and wrong, yes." He raised his eyes and looked at her levelly: "But who says that the majority is necessarily right?"

Minerva stared. A cold gust of air came up and manifested in the cold that surrounded her heart and mind and made it hard to breathe. She had to report him. Oh good Lord, she had to report him. She had allowed this stupid infatuation with him to cloud her thoughts and actions. A hand flew to her mouth. She had never been so torn about something that she knew was the right decision, because there was Tom, Tom Riddle, who was still staring up at her with that expectant look- Tom whom she loved, Tom whom she loathed.

But she had no choice. No choice at all. Bitterly, she allowed herself a brief moment of reflection on the fact that everything she had relied on seemed to turn out to be wrong and false these days. The cold fist tightened around her heart.

"Tom," she choked, "Tom, I have to report your actions to Professor Dumbledore. I have to."

And half-torn between simply running and willing him to understand desperately- but how could he- she finally gathered her feet and her courage and ran.

"Minerva!" she heard behind her and it did not sound cool and collected at all anymore. She was afraid, truly, honestly afraid, but she did not turn around. She kept running, out of breath, but still on and on, up the steep Scottish hills, all the while to the castle. The winds whipped and tore at her clothes, her hair, her resolution, but she could not stop. Not anymore. "Minerva!" It was an ugly, nearly shrill scream. "Minerva! Stop! Minerva!" There was nothing but the stinging of her eyes, her harsh breath and his screams.

She was still panting when she reached the castle. Once inside, she dared to look back. Through the maze of black-clad students- it was Saturday, lunch time and everyone was busy milling about or on the way to the Great Hall- she could not see him anymore. Minerva breathed a sigh of relief and allowed herself a moment to ponder her actions. Her only salvation, she realised, was now Professor Dumbledore, because who knew how far Tom was willing to go to make her remain silent? Although he had once said that he considered them friends, Minerva had decided not to place too much weight on his words. Nimbly, she hurried through the maze of staircases in the dim light of the school's interior under the curious yet patronizing stares of the numerous portraits.

"What is she so worked up about?" an elderly man in 19th Century dress asked curiously, adjusting his eyeglass. The matronly witch knitting in the background of the picture scowled at him: "Don't be so nosey, Archibald. Calm down, dear. I heard elevated blood pressure is bad for the physique." "Oh," the man scowled. "And where would you have heard that, woman, seeing as that you-" Minerva ignored them and hurried on, glad that the staircases had for the while at least, stopped moving and she could continue on her way. "What kind of doom has befallen thee to make thy stride so quick?" another portrait boomed. Minerva threw a cursory glance its way- it depicted a man in 16th Century dress with long hair and a bushy beard, who eyed her thoughtfully. Again, she ignored him. Finally, almost having reached Professor Dumbledore's rooms, she heard voices.

Quickly, she pressed herself against the cool wall of a dim hallway and froze when she recognized the male voice. Tom? How on earth could he have...Oh Merlin.

"Have you seen Minerva McGonagall around here sometime the last minutes, my dear? We were supposed to meet up here and unfortunately I am running late..." Tom's explanation was as usual perfect and sophisticated. Minerva's heart beat loudly in her throat.

The voice that answered was a young one, eager to please and girlishly high. Surprise beat fear. Myrtle? How on earth did the two know each other? She didn't give too much on Myrtle's loyalty-she knew how much the girl would do for a simple friendly word. And indeed the girl- Minerva could nearly see her excited smile at being spoken to by Tom Riddle, good-looking, charming Third Year Tom Riddle- squeaked shyly: "I didn't see her, but I think I saw a person cross over in the corridor-over there!"

Several Muggle curse words, very unbecoming on a Lady, came to Minerva's mind and she tried to slip away stealthily and quickly. Her stealthy and quick escape was, however, quickly brought to an end as she turned without looking and ran smack into something solid. Or, better, someone solid. The someone groaned. Papers and books went flying everywhere and Minerva raised her eyes in silent fear to gaze up at the intimidating bulk of Professor Giacomo Accuratore. More Muggle curse words came to her mind.

"Would you watch where you are going, Miss McGonagall!" he growled at her. Minerva backed away and bent down quickly to pick his papers and books up. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Tom who had of course heard the racket and leaned against the wall next to her. The look in his eyes was unreadable.

Minerva gulped and gave the papers and books to the Professor, apologising profusely. He gave her a glare and walked away without a word of thanks. Avoiding Tom's cool stare, Minerva's eyes came to rest on a small piece of parchment on the ground. "Prof-" But he was already gone.

"Give it to me." Tom's voice. Minerva clutched the piece of parchment to her chest. "No. Why should I?" she hissed defiantly. Wrong answer, wrong answer, the inward voice chanted and she felt herself starting to tremble as Tom's eyes flashed angrily. He advanced and Minerva's heart thumped loudly in her chest. She backed away slowly, but the hallway was not wide and thus the wall soon came up to meet her. Standing there, back pressed as tightly to the wall as humanly possible, she could only watch with wide eyes how he came steadily closer.

When there were only inches between them, his hand shot out and he grabbed the piece of parchment quicker than she could have reacted. In spite of their intimate closeness, he ignored her and Minerva could only watch with wide eyes how he performed a number of revelation spells on the parchment that neither of them should have only even heard of at their age. As it became apparent that he wasn't going to do anything to her in the next moment, she allowed her hand to creep closer to her wand pocket. But before she could even touch it, Tom's arm shot out and he pinned her effectively to the wall.

His warm breath ghosted over her cheeks and her mouth, as he gazed at her, still that unreadable look on his face. She closed her eyes and willed her hands to stop shaking. Their closeness did not only provoke fear in her, but also an exhilarating thrill that she couldn't have explained and was disgusted for with herself. "That piece of parchment fell out of the Professor's robes," Tom explained quietly, emotionlessly. "No-one ever carries such a torn, old and empty parchment with them. It's bound to hold secrets."

"I quite agree, Mr. Riddle," a familiar voice came from next to them. Minerva could not stop a little gasp- whether it was out of relief or, asininely enough, disappointment, she couldn't have said.

"Professor Dumbledore," Tom acknowledged coolly and stepped away from Minerva, giving her a last inscrutable once-over. She knew that they were not finished.

"Miss McGonagall, Mr. Riddle," their Transfiguration Professor greeted politely. His blue eyes were sharp behind his glasses as he surveyed them. Minerva felt how a blush rose up on her cheeks. Annoyed, she lowered her eyes. She did not have anything to be ashamed about. Then, however, she thought how the situation might have looked to the Professor and another blush painted her face a flaming red. Tom was looking as implacable as ever and in that moment, although she had been terribly afraid of him only the blink of an eye before, she wanted to hit him as hard as she could.

"May I see that piece of parchment you found?" Professor Dumbledore continued, holding out his hand. Tom gave it to him without a word, but with clear reluctance in his eyes. Their Professor mumbled a number of spells, the parchment floating in the air in front of him whilst his wand was trained on the parchment's centre. The two of them watched mutely, how nothing happened and how slight exasperation entered Dumbledore's voice as he mumbled incantation after incantation.

Finally, however, words in blue ink began to appear. They appeared to have been scribbled hastily.

Minerva peered over Dumbledore's shoulder. Her favourite Professor appeared to be deep in thought, but he allowed her to read the message. "Die Hummeln summen wieder," Minerva read slowly and with what she supposed to be terrible pronunciation. "Der Bienenstock ist dagegen nicht über die neue Futterquelle informiert. Der Bär hat ganze Arbeit geleistet. Der Flug von Hermes wird erfolgen. Achten Sie auf den Werwolf."

"It's German," Tom stated and Minerva cast him a resentful glare. They had all realised that much already hadn't they?

"What does it say?" she asked quietly. Tom looked at Professor Dumbledore.

"May I, Professor?"

Dumbledore shot him a sharp, nearly thoughtful look, but then he nodded.

Tom raised his wand and pointed it at the parchment. "Translatore," he mumbled softly.

The words morphed quickly and they bent over the piece of parchment again.

"The bumblebees are buzzing again. The bee hive, however, does not know anything about the new source of food. The bear has done a good job. Hermes's flight will take place. Watch out for the were-wolf."

For a while, no-one said a word. Dumbledore appeared to be deeply engrossed in thoughts, while Tom and Minerva stared at each other. For once, they could both safely agree that they were completely clueless, so they didn't have to contest with each other.

Professor Dumbledore eventually cleared his throat and they looked at him.

"Come with me, please," he said, his tone indicating that he expected them to be silent and compliant.

Seeing as that Dumbledore's tone was so different from his usual one and that his eyes had lost their normal mad twinkle, Minerva and Tom were silent as they followed him.

"Sit," their Professor said as they entered his office and indicated the two high-backed chairs standing in front of his desk. He took a seat himself and folded his hands thoughtfully, staring in the distance and looking as though he wasn't even aware of them.

"Professor?" Minerva ventured tentatively after some minutes of pregnant silence.

The blue penetrating gaze snapped to her and she found it hard to bear Dumbledore's stare.

"Where did you acquire that piece of parchment, Miss McGonagall?"

Thus, Minerva told him. Professor Dumbledore was silent throughout her explanation, merely stroking his red-grey beard and Tom was motionless next to her. When she was finished, the Professor nodded and stared into the sizzling flames of the fireplace. Her gaze drawn to the fireplace as well, Minerva felt her eyelids grow heavy as she stared into the red and golden heat. There were shapes, shapes that moved in that fire and Minerva strained her eyes to make them out. When she focused on them, she realised that they were in fact no mere shapes but miniscule figures, graceful and nimble in their moves. They appeared to be dancing…it were little elf-like beings and their eyes, made of fire and flames like the rest of them, appeared to be of a darker color. Their silhouettes were defined by unclear lines that seemed to melt into the inferno around them whenever they moved. They even seemed to have distinct features and Minerva gasped, as one of the figures lifted a tiny hand and waved at her cheekily.

"Minerva!" She couldn't understand-why were there figures in Dumbledore's fireplace? The figure seemed to mouth something at her, maybe a warning judging by the urgent look in its eyes but she couldn't understand-what- "Minerva!"

Someone nudged her. Hard.

Minerva wrenched her eyes open and discovered that she was still sitting in the high-backed chair in front of Dumbledore's desk. Tom had evidently gotten up and stared at her edgily. Dumbledore himself was kneeling in front of her, his hands on her shoulders and an intent expression on his face. Minerva flinched back from his penetrating gaze.

"Remember, Miss McGonagall- appearances can be deceiving." Professor Dumbledore's eyes were imploring, nearly hypnotizing, but Minerva forced herself to hold his gaze. The comfortable warmth was gone and a sudden gust of air made her shiver. A nearly imperceptible flick of his eyes told Minerva that Dumbledore had looked in Tom's general direction. But why would he look at Tom? She hadn't told him about the "spider incident", as she dubbed it in her head, so why would he look at Tom?

"Now," Dumbledore said in a normal tone of voice, "is there anything you'd like to tell me ? Mr. Riddle?"

Minerva looked at Tom, who shrugged, the picture of innocence. "No, sir."

"What about you? Miss McGonagall?"

Minerva didn't even have to look at him, to know that Tom's gaze was intently fixed on her face.

"No, sir," she replied strongly, her decision made. "Nothing."  
Tom showed no emotion as she looked over to him, but she had expected nothing less from him.

"Are you sure?" Professor Dumbledore questioned, but there was no going back and Minerva knew it.

"Yes, sir. I happened to be in that corridor by chance when I encountered Professor Accuratore," Minerva explained, hoping that he would not ask any further questions. Of course he didn't buy it. She could see that at the firm set of his mouth and at the fact that the usual twinkle had still not reappeared.

"Alright then, off you go," the Professor said, nodding at them.

They said their good-byes rather hastily and were quickly out in the corridors. Minerva did not stop until they had reached the grounds, which was where Tom took her arm and whirled her around, forcing her to face him.

"What the hell was that just about?" he exploded.  
"What?" Minerva hissed, furious herself.

"Your little nodding off in there!"

Minerva had expected to hear something else. Seeing that he had abandoned his menacing stare and stance, she allowed herself to relax a fraction. In fact, a tiny smirk curled her mouth as she saw that, as a result of their running and arguing, he was flushed and his hair was all mussed up. Her fingers itched and she longed to comb his black strands into his usual impeccable hair-do, but she suppressed the itch and shoved her hand in the pocket of her wide robes instead.

"I have no idea, Tom," she replied eventually a little stiffly, as his impatient stare slowly turned to exasperation. "I guess the warmth of the fireplace and the stifling nature of the whole office made me drowsy."

"That's not what I meant!" Tom looked so frustrated that she allowed the tiny smirk to widen. She had forgotten how much fun it could be to rile him up. "I meant the _Verumignis._ What did they tell you?"

Completely caught off-guard, Minerva stared at him. "The what?"

Tom sighed and his expression told Minerva exactly what he was thinking of her in that moment. "The Flame-Truth-Sayers, as they are called. _Verumignis_. They are in between that state of existence and non-existence. Even if they are visible to one person, it may very well be that other persons present in that very room as well are unable to see them. I only deduced that you have seen them, for example, due to the simple fact that you are normally not as daft as to nod off in the middle of a conversation. Some even claim that they are mere figments of one's imagination. however, they are said to tell the truth and to foresee the future. They appear only when a dangerous situation is coming up in the near future. Don't tell me you have never heard of them!"

Minerva scoffed. "I have heard of a lot of things, Mr. Riddle, but veritaserum in the form of little creatures dancing naked through the fire is not among them!" While Tom glared at her coolly – that glare seemed to be affixed to his face currently- Minerva allowed herself to think on his words. "Do you think that their appearance has something to do with the piece of parchment we found and thus with Professor Accuratore?"

Tom nodded slowly, as if thinking about her words. As he did so, Minerva looked at him and felt nearly sickened. What if- Professor Dumbledore had looked at Tom and so what if it wasn't Professor Accuratore the _Verumignis _had tried to warn her about?

"I believe you are right," Tom said finally. All business, he added: "So now we have several things to find out. What are Professor Accuratore's intentions? What does the message mean, since Dumbledore clearly won't tell us? Who is helping Accuratore or is he alone? What are his plans? And why does he work for Grindelwald?"

"Wait a minute," Minerva said, angered at feeling so helpless in face of his speedy deductions. "How did you find out he is working for Grindelwald?"

"Please," Tom scoffed. "You are not at your brightest today, are you, Minnie?"- "Stop calling me that!" Minerva growled, but he simply ignored her- "Grindelwald is German. The message was in German. Besides, how many other Dark Wizards or beings we should be worried about are around at the moment?" He paused, then added: "But I have no time to wait for your enlightenment- we will discuss all what we found out tomorrow at 5 pm. The library. Be punctual." Without missing a beat, he went on: "Why didn't you tell him?"

Minerva, completely out of breath, shrugged, pretending it was no big deal although it clearly was a big deal and maybe one of the biggest decisions she had ever made, one that she was sure would continue to haunt her.

"I think everyone deserves a second chance."

Here Tom laughed at her. In the sunshine, his hair had reddish tint and his teeth gleamed as he let his amusement show. "I don't think that was your only reason," he told her softly.

"I think you are curious…about this." And before she had time to react, he had inched closer and pressed a short kiss to her cheek. Then, raising his eyebrows at her nonchalantly, he was gone. Minerva stared after him and tried to come to terms with feeling as if she was suspended in midair and had just realised that the ground under her feet was non-existent.

Meanwhile, Professor Dumbledore sat in his office, staring into the flames and watching the figures of the _Verumignis_, twisted in a sense of urgency and screaming at him in silent voices.

"Aquamenti," the Professor said softly and raised his wand. The _Verumignis_ withered and died.

* * *

_tbc...Some things I'd like to add: As far a s I know, Grindelwald's nationality is not specified. So when I looked at his surname, I realised that he could have been German. Mind you, Grindelwald is not a surname that I have ever heard and I don't believe that it exists- or if it does, it is very rare- but "Wald", at least, means forest in German. And since German happens to be my first language (-;, it came in handy for that message. Speaking of that message, I'll leave you to decipher it on your own this chapter. Clarification will come soon. Hint: Think of Dumbledore's name. _


	8. 1940 Part III

_Hi everyone. It's been a long time since the last update...but I must say I was quite disappointed with the total lack of reviews. A writer lives from reviews and I am no exception )-: ...Still, I will continue this story- regardless of the amount of reviews. i think it's wrong to base updating a story on the amount of reviews. But if you like this story (or not), please leave me a review! It would absolutely make my day, no, my week! Finals are next week and so I am quite stressed at the moment- a review would make everything better. I'm not saying that you have to review or anything, I would never do that, but please know that I would be so very happy about a review. It doesn't have to be much- just a word or two would be enough for me._

_That having been said, I will update soon again. I didn't have the chance to update because school was hectic these last months (the lack of reviews was not the reason, but it did slow me down considerably). _

_And- did anyone decipher the meaning of the message- or at least in parts? Below is the "solution" (-;_

_So- I hope you like it._

_Greetings,_

_Sachita (-:_

* * *

**Chapter Seven**

**Hogwarts, Early Summer 1940**

"Good Lord, Tom," Minerva groaned quietly. "Is this really necessary?"

She found herself in an awkward position indeed, pressed against Tom in a niche that had surely been used as a wardrobe in earlier times, as a very rusty ancient coat peg over their heads proved. However, as time had passed one had found it convenient to add wood panels to the room they were currently in, but one had not deemed it necessary to be that exact with the paneling. No, instead one had left some space between the wood panels and the wall here where the wardrobe had been standing, creating that hiding place they were currently squished inside. One had clearly left this bit of space for purposes like the one they were currently pursuing: spying. On others. In their office. One could have left a bit more space to allow the spy to breathe, Minerva thought surly. Clearly, _one_ had been stupid. It was hot. It was uncomfortable. She was sweating. She wriggled around a bit, earning a hissed "Quiet!" from Tom and a bony elbow jab to the ribs.

"Tom!" she hissed angrily. "That hurt!"

"Will you finally be quiet, Minerva?" he growled back in obvious frustration.

Irritated, Minerva stared at him and shook her head, but not at Tom. Rather, at herself. What on earth was she doing here? In Professor Accuratore's study, none the less. Stuck together with Tom bloody Riddle in a space so tight that she could feel his every breath? Spying on the Professor to see if he worked for Grindelwald from so absurd a hiding place? Dear Lord, it sounded like a chapter taken out of a crime novel. The worst part, however, was that she wasn't afraid at all. It all felt rather like an adventure to her- and she was determined to find out what the Professor was up to.

Heavy footsteps came closer and stopped in front of the door. "Here he comes," Tom whispered and Minerva almost used her own elbow against _him_ this time. They had already established that talking was not warranted, hadn't they?

They both held their breath though as the door creaked open. The wood panels in front of their little hiding place had little knotholes and so the two observers realised that the one entering the room was, in fact, the man they had been waiting for; Professor Accuratore.

He moved slowly, only as quick as his heavy mass allowed. Nothing happened for the next few minutes; the Professor only shuffled some papers around on his desk, then he sat there for a long time, staring into the flames of his fireplace. Minerva felt how the heat of the flames made her drowsy- the added body heat of Tom didn't do much to change that. Her eyelids slowly slipped shut.

A long finger poked her in the side. She turned her head to glare at Tom, but the angle was unfortunate. Thus her eyes widened comically since she found herself nose-to-nose with Tom, whom merely gave her an amused look. Minerva felt how a blush stained her cheeks. His breath ghosted over her neck as he leaned closer and his look changed. Minerva couldn't have described it, though it looked like some kind of hunger that was hidden in his eyes.

Minerva's heart thudded in her chest. Was he going to kiss her? But just as he leaned in, a sudden groan coming from Professor Accuratore's chair made them freeze. Minerva hastily turned her head away and saw Tom doing the same.

Focusing on the Professor again as though nothing had happened, they saw that he had got up and was stretching to get the kinks out of his back.

Minerva suddenly froze. Dust motes had somehow managed to get into her nose. She could feel a sneeze coming up. Desperately she pinched her nose and when that did not seem to help matters, she squeezed it with her fingers. Tom, who had realised what was happening, was suddenly holding his hands in front of her face, too, trying to muffle any sound that might escape. Minerva, for a moment, contemplated how surprisingly calloused Tom's hands were before the sneeze building up in her made her drop the matter quickly. "AAH-CHOO!"

It had been quiet, muffled by Tom's hands and Minerva's attempts to remain silent, but still Professor Accuratore jumped up from his seat and stood still as a statue, trying to determine where the sound had come from. Minerva and Tom remained perfectly still, but Minerva was sure that her heart would surely alert the Professor as it seemed to beat as loud as if she had jumped up and screamed "Here!" Tom put a calming hand on her arm. It didn't help matters.

The Professor came very close to their hiding place and looked at the wood panels closely for some long agonizing moments, then withdrew his wand. "Show your secrets!" he thundered and pointed the wand at the panels. Nothing happened.

Humming contemplatively, the Professor finally sat down. "Probably nothing," he mumbled to himself. After torturous minutes while they dared not to move in the slightest, Professor Accuratore picked up a stack of papers and exited the room.

Stiff and sore from having remained in one position for so long, they hastily crawled back through the narrow tunnel that they had used to come there. The tunnel's exit was near Gryffindor Tower, but in a hidden corridor. Tom had known about it, claiming that it was a "secret" when Minerva had asked him how he had found it and not in the mood to argue with him, she had let it go. They fell rather than climbed out from behind the statue that hid the entrance. Landing in a tangle of robes and limbs, it took them some time to sort themselves out.

When they had made sure that everything was accounted for, Tom sat up and glared at Minerva darkly. "What the hell," he growled.

"I can't help having to sneeze," Minerva defended herself, then got up, dusting herself off. "I am not doing that again," she said firmly.

"What- trying to find out if Accuratore is striving for world domination?" Tom shot back cynically.  
"No, Tom," Minerva replied primly and he glared at her tone. "I am not going back to that hiding hole."  
Tom jumped to his feet elegantly and Minerva envied him for his easy grace.

"Oh come on," he said impatiently, "you know that Accuratore is involved in Grindelwald's business."

"No," Minerva snapped back. "I don't. How would you know?"

Tom gave her a look that would have put an elementary school teacher to shame. "The notice," he replied flatly in a "smarter-than-thou" –voice. Minerva did not care much for his tone and she said so. Tom scoffed impatiently.

"The letter," he said. He shook his head and pulled her into an empty classroom. "The German letter," he repeated.

"So what?" Minerva actually enjoyed being difficult and seeing how his pallor faded for an angry red skin colour.

"It was an encoded message."

"And I suppose you decoded it?"

"Of course," Tom said slowly. "Don't be so dense, Minerva. Actually I had presumed you had done the same, but alas, seeing that you haven't-" He withdrew his wand and drew the translated words of the message in the air.

_The bumblebees are buzzing again. The bee hive, however, does not know anything about the new source of food. The bear has done a good job. Hermes's flight will take place. Watch out for the were-wolf._

"Bumblebee," Tom tipped at the word with his wand until it vanished as thin smoke, "stands for Dumbledore. Dumbledore is somehow active in his fight against Grindelwald and Accuratore thinks he knows something. The beehive," and he touched that word next, "is the Ministry. They don't know anything, as usual, poor fools."

He sneered derisively. "The source of food, well," he paused, "that is for us to find out. It's his plans. The bear is probably a spy or someone who tries to convey false information about Grindelwald to those in positions of authority. Maybe it's even Accuratore himself. Again, that's for us to find out. And finally, Hermes."

He waved his wand at the word and it changed from its original white smoky colour to an angry red. "It's a message. A message with information that should not leave the country, but we have no way of knowing if it already has and we probably also have no way to find out. The were-wolf is when that message will arrive. By the next full moon- but, how old is this message? Is it the last full moon? And were the original plans to send that message to the time still executed now that Accuratore has lost the notice and Dumbledore knows about it?"

"You say," Minerva said finally slowly, "that Dumbledore has already figured it out too?"

Tom gave her a clearly pitying look. "Of course he has," he replied. " You are the one who always speaks of him so highly. My, you are slow today, aren't you? So we can't really help him there. Intercepting the message is not what we can do. But maybe we can find out more information."

"Still not going back to that hiding hole," Minerva replied stubbornly.

"Fine!" Tom seethed and threw his hands up. "Have it your way!"

Angrily, he exited the room. Minerva folded her hands across her chest and stared after him levelly. Then she turned to the window and sighed. This was worse than she had thought- and she was thinking of two things. One- her crush on Tom bloody Riddle had not gotten better. Two- Professor Accuratore was a spy for the enemy but they had no proof.

Staring at the clouds, Minerva wondered where it would all lead. She felt suddenly very helpless.

* * *

The rest of summer until the holidays passed uneventfully. They did not find out much regarding Professor Accuratore's activities. Minerva had never gone back to the hiding hole, much to Tom's annoyance.

On a sunny summer afternoon in the last week before the holidays, Minerva wandered through the school, attempting to find Tom to ask him whether he had found out something new. And also, because she wanted to see him, she amended somewhat angrily, but only angry at herself for being so weak.

When she found Tom, he was surrounded by a herd of Slytherins. Myleena hung at his arm and Minerva scoffed in anger. Myleena- that good-for-nothing, oh-look-I-am-beautiful- no, she was not continuing this. Why did she care what Tom did with Myleena? It was his business.

"Tom," she said politely, but coldly, not to be deterred by the Slytherin death glares she received from all directions from his _followers_, "can I speak to you for a minute?"

"Why would you need to speak to me?" he had the audacity to ask arrogantly, putting a heavy emphasis on the "you". The Slytherins snickered.

Minerva was seething, but she did not show it. "Oh, dear boy," she said sweetly, "did you forget about the "love star" map we have to do together for divination?"

"Love star map? Divination?" Tom stared at her, while the other Slytherins tried to keep straight faces, not wanting to risk his anger. But by giving such an awkward answer, he had managed to lose his credibility. Minerva nearly laughed as that dawned on him, too.

He shooed the other Slytherins away with a simple hand movement. "What do you want, Minerva?" he finally growled coldly.

"Nothing anymore, Tom Riddle," Minerva hissed venomously, all amusement forgotten. How dare he treat her like that! As if she was like his Slytherin followers, eager for a kind word from him! How dare he!

"How dare you, Minerva?" Tom was angry, but oh, so was she. She lifted a hand and slapped him before she even knew what she was doing. For a moment, hurt and confusion clouded his features. Then he showed only cold fury and Minerva knew that she had to run.

Tom slowly raised a hand to his burning cheek, but he put a hand on Abraxas Malfoy's arm, as he raised it to fire a hex after Minerva's slim frame.

"Leave her," he said. As his fellow Slytherins turned away, Tom raised his eyes.

"You will regret that one day, Minerva," he said softly. "But not now."

* * *

**London, Late Summer 1940**

The summer holidays passed soon, without a word from either Tom or Minerva. One day, though, Minerva's mother decided they needed to get out- to London.

Summer was in its last vestiges. The City of London was filled with lots of people- many of them clad in greenish or brownish uniforms. The air was filled with hectic and unease. Minerva felt insecure and she thought of what Tom had once told her: "I am located in trouble's centre." She could now feel what he had meant- the war was much more present in London than anywhere else in the country.

So felt better when they arrived in Hyde Park, where the atmosphere seemed less strained. It was bathed in golden light. A little girl in a pale dress skipped merrily through the wet meadows, whilst her mother was calling for her in annoyance from where she was standing on one of the paths that snaked their way through the park. The little girl did not heed her mother's cries though. She was still running; her little hand clutched her hat that was adorned by a loosely flying red ribbon and her face was alight with wonderment as she chased after an errant butterfly. Minerva smiled wistfully as she observed the little girl's antics through the window of a Muggle Car.

Her parents had taken her with them because they had to be "present in high Wizard society which is naturally located in the capital," her mother had put it. Her father, on the other hand, had seized the opportunity to pursue his scientific interest in the Muggles- he saw them more as some kind of zoo exhibits- and to travel with one of their Machines. So now Minerva and her mother were cooped up in the leather backseat of a black "Ford", as their Muggle driver had called the car. Her father was sitting in the front seat animatedly chatting with the driver while closely observing the latter's expressions and answers which disgusted Minerva for she knew that her father's interest was the same interest one would have for a dog: one might value him, even like him but in the end the dog was an animal and one was superior. Adelaide McGonagall pursed her lips and Minerva had to stifle a smile at her mother's expression; she had only put up with her husband's eccentrics for she feared that he might abandon his lenient position regarding Mrs. McGonagall's countless sumptuous and costly social events and force her to cut back on them.

Minerva shook her head ignoring her mother's glare and stared again after that small girl. Sweet Merlin, how she envied her. Of course, now she saw that the girl had slipped in the mud and her mother came running toward her, but her shouts were of concern and not of anger. Minerva observed how she helped her daughter up, smoothed a hand through the blond locks and even had a warm smile ready for the little girl as she- already recovered from the shock of her fall- enthusiastically pointed after some birds. Minerva's eyes were stinging and she forced herself to look away quickly; telling herself that it was only the sun's glare.

With a small cough, she smoothed her silky green dress down and folded her sweaty hands in her lap. It was silent in the car. The outside sounds were muted by the thick glass panes. Minerva hated it. She smoothed the dress down again and fiddled with her hands. Feeling her mother's searing glare on her, she abandoned the motion and stared straight ahead. A few locks had escaped her strict hairdo and were dancing merrily around her face with the motion of the car, but Minerva did not have the will to push them behind her ears. She could only sit there straight-backed and stare out of the front window.

"Ho!" A man stood next to the path. He was dressed in a long blue uniform coat with golden buttons, official-looking. A hat was perched on his balding head and Minerva saw that sweat beads were gathered on his forehead. He looked annoyed and a little bored. Maybe his job- whatever official function it entailed- was very uninteresting. Out of boredom, she wondered if he was married and had her answer when she spotted a gleaming gold band on his ring finger. The man nodded at them and then turned to speak with their driver, who had stopped, one of his large hands still on the steering wheel, the other occupied with opening the window.

"Excuse me, Sirs," the man spoke hesitantly in a broad Yorkshire accent over the sounds of the park that accompanied his speech. His annoyance was seemingly forgotten and Minerva knew that it was probably due to the finesse of their clothes that indicated a higher social standing. She suddenly had the burning desire to rip them off so that the official would voice the annoyance still dormant in his eyes. "Do you have a special permission? The passage through this park has been prohibited for motor vehicles."

Their driver nodded- Minerva saw the rim of his tartan-patterned cap go up and down- and handed the official a folded slip of paper. As the latter studied it, she took the time to look outside. A group of boys had gathered around their vehicle Minerva realised with discomfort. Their clothes were shabby, but they were clean and well-mended. The boys' faces were smeared with dirt and Minerva might have smiled at them if the derision plastered so firmly on their sneering little faces weren't aimed at her. She forced herself to ignore their silent stares and chanced a look at the official. He had put some glasses on and was now examining the paper very closely. Their driver had taken his cap off and raked a frustrated hand through his wavy brown hair. Minerva knew what his face looked like as she had seen it when she had gotten in the car: he had a boyish face with freckles and light green eyes. His smile had been infectious and she had found herself smiling back at him only stopping as her mother had shaken her head at her. Right now, she was sure, the driver wasn't smiling.

His Cockney Accent rang loudly through the air as he argued with the official whose Yorkshire undertones were getting more and more pronounced. All the while, the workers' children had been silently staring at them, now they had found a new victim. Minerva looked outside as they lined up in a row yelling at someone who was still out of her visual range.

"Workhousers! Workhousers!" They chanted. " Got no bleedin' penny, got no mother, got no nothings!"

Finally Minerva could see who their cruel shouts were directed at. In rows of two, grey-clad orphans marched along the path. Their expressions were shuttered, of course, Minerva thought, it was very unpleasant to be shouted at that way. Their uniformity was striking though. The boys all wore a tie and a suit made out of rough grey fabric and the girls were clad in knee-length skirts in the same shade of grey combined with white knee socks and white blouses with black bow ties.

And then- and it caused Minerva to sharply suck in some much-needed air- there he was. Tom. Among the rows of the boys with the neatly-parted hair, his face paler than she had ever seen it and faint blue rings under his eyes. He looked sick and unwell.

Then, he lifted his head and he stared straight at her. Minerva held his glare, unable to look away.

His gaze was still as sharp as ever, the midnight eyes avid as they surveyed her, though certain lifelessness seemed to have taken up residence on his face and as Minerva's gaze swerved over the grey uniformity of the orphans and Tom's rigid stance she began to comprehend this look. Of course he had told her that the orphanage was bad and she had believed him, but she had never been able to picture the misery- not just the material poverty, but the lack of positive feelings as well- although Minerva's parents were cold people, she still had Fletcher- and of course her beloved elder brother, Andrew. Who did Tom have? The answer came to her like a cold gust of air as she stared in his eyes. No-one.

At Hogwarts, it was not as striking as it was here for Minerva: Tom was all alone in the world. And somehow, he seemed alone even among the children, his fellow orphans, as they, though being close to him simply through the manner of their marching formation, held an almost imperceptible distance to him. Minerva shivered a little as she imagined what had happened to make Tom so isolated. "I made them pay…" his voice rang in her ears and she suddenly remembered a conversation on the school roof a year ago. Pay? How could he have possibly made them pay? And why? What had they done to him? A little warning voice inside her head told her that she was being far too subjective- she had not yet asked herself what Tom had done to the children, or if he was really the innocent party.

With a jolt Minerva suddenly became aware of Tom standing right on the other side of the car window. The other orphans marched on, but he remained rooted to the spot, his grey-blue gaze riveted to her face. She could not look away, even as the cool voice of her mother asked behind her: "Minerva- why are you staring at that- that uncivilized boy? Stop it this instant!"

But Minerva would not look away. Tom's burning eyes made her quiver inside; she longed to reach out and touch him and she would have done so if it were not for the glass barrier between them. All that passed between them the last time they had spoken didn't seem to matter anymore. Instead both of them felt the burning attraction that was between them every time they met. Minerva put a hand on the window and Tom did the same from the outside.

"I'm sorry," Minerva mouthed at him. Tom's shoulders fell down.

"Me too," he replied in kind without raising his voice and although she knew that this was not the last they would say about their latest argument, it did not matter in this moment.

"Minerva," his lips formed.

"Tom," she whispered.

"Hey! You! Yes, you boy! Get lost!" The driver had noticed Tom, too, and he got out of the car, as he saw that Tom wasn't thinking of moving. The official was still looking at his papers, Minerva saw from the corner of her eyes. She did not dare to look away from Tom's searching blue gaze. Goosebumps came into existence all over her body at his look. Though it was warm in the sunshine, she felt cold all over and too hot at the same time. How odd. Her ears were ringing, though all was silent.

"Minerva!" Her mother grabbed her harshly at her neck and forced her to look at her. "Don't stare at that street urchin, I said!" Minerva broke her hold harshly and turned quickly back to Tom. But some of the disgusted look and the anger she had just before shown to her mother must have still been present on her face, for an odd expression flitted over Tom's otherwise so unreadable face. He looked confused and humiliated, but worst of all he looked hurt. Minerva had never seen that look before; she had not even known that Tom's face could look like that. And she certainly hadn't wanted to know. But before she could shake off her frozen stance, Tom had already turned away. Minerva shook her head frantically, but the car was already pulling away. Tom had turned around and was now walking faster to reach his fellow orphans that had gone off without waiting for him. Minerva could see that the grey-clad herd of children Tom was heading to was standing in some kind of formation, almost like a choir. As Tom reached them, the elderly Lady who accompanied the group quickly ushered him in the second row of that strange formation. As Minerva looked on through the back window of the car, it suddenly occurred to her what was going on.

_"I've always wanted to have a picnic." _Tom's derisive voice from a year ago rang in her ears. _"Ever since I saw those __**toffs **__in Hyde Park with their white breeches, their arrogant demeanour and their insincere smiles, who had a picnic while listening to our oh-so-splendid-voices. We had to sing in front of a whole party of them. Of course- because we're orphans it must surely mean that we always want to sing in front of those, who benevolently grant us money for us threadbare clothes and our watery stew!"_

Minerva balled her hands to fists and pressed her lips on one another to keep a sob from escaping. Her eyes burned- what had she done? She ignored her mother's furious accusations and stared out of the window at the innocent London sunshine. Oh sweet Merlin, what had she done?

Later that evening, as she lay in her bed, Tom's face burned in her mind. How pale he had been! She closed her eyes and saw him: the burning blue eyes that formed a stark contrast against the pallor of his face, the bloodless lips, the scalding betrayal and hurt in his expression and the dark shadows under his eyes. He must have thought that she despised him, even looked down on him only because of his social status. As was to be expected of a witch of her social standing. Minerva escaped a harsh sob as her eyes burned. Oh dear Merlin. Tom- what had she done?

* * *

**Scotland, Early Autumn 1940**

The grey dawn hung on the horizon, as Minerva , being careful not to make too much noise, quietly slipped out of the front door of the McGonagall Manor.

The sun was rising as a pale red strip beyond the green mountains, pale in the light of the new day. Flocks of birds rose with sharp cries from some firs that stood scattered and few in the wild landscape. Minerva's home had few trees; at least the immediate surroundings of the Manor were bare of trees. Down in the lower plains there was a dark blue lake, perfectly reflecting the broad-leaved forest that encompassed it in its dark depths. On good days, when the sun came out, the lake was nearly azure; brilliant blue and seemingly bottomless. Minerva knew what it looked like on all days- she loved this place, she loved those mountains, the gently rolling hills that led to the lake; the trees and even the Muggle Village. There was a Muggle Village, some miles away, grey-bricked houses that lined a gravelly path. Few cars were seen here, as most of the people living in the village did not own or could not afford a car. They were too far away from the bigger cities to be influenced by them; life seemed to pass much slower than anywhere else.

Minerva dearly loved to observe the Muggles, but she had never dared to show herself in the village. Mother had forbidden it, and even if she hadn't, Minerva wouldn't have gone there. She was not shy, but she still couldn't deal with people very well, be it those Muggles or other Wizards. Still she admired the villagers; how they struggled with their daily chores and still had a smile ready at the end of the day. If she thought of her mother, who had much more to her disposal than these people, she could still not remember ever seeing her smile.

Minerva sighed and drew her coat tighter around her body. The skirt she was wearing did not do much to keep the cold away; instead it crawled up her body and snaked under her clothes. It was early September and school would start in just a few days. She frowned as she remembered Caelus's arrival a few days prior- she had sent him to London with a letter for Tom, a letter in which she had tried to explain her behaviour in Hyde Park- Caelus had come back, the letter still attached to his leg. He had looked defeated, as much as it was possible for an owl to do so, but there was little worse for the proud messenger than not to be able to deliver his message and so Minerva had understood what the owl had wanted to tell her: Tom had not even looked at the letter.

Grey mists encompassed her pale legs as she looked down to where she was standing in between some knee-high bushes. Dewdrops still hung upon their leaves and Minerva smiled in lonely delight as she brushed her fingers over them. Quiet laughter made her look up. It seemed to reverberate strangely in the morning silence, which had seemed nearly sacred until then. A few birds took wing at the unexpected sound, and for some reason, Minerva didn't step away, but instead came closer to where the laughter had come from.

At the edge of the forest, the laughter came again. It was an untroubled, oddly cheerful sound and Minerva smiled. Her eyes fell on a thick-set tree- it was gnarled and old. Its branches nearly brushed the ground, so it was nigh impossible to see who or what was hiding inside. Without fear, Minerva slipped inside and found herself facing a girl of her age, who was hanging upside down from the tree. Shocked, Minerva stifled a small scream of surprise and saw that the girl looked as surprised as she felt.

"Hello," she managed finally after having stared at the other for what felt like ages. Still, Minerva reasoned, it was surely also not normal among the Muggles to hang upside down from trees, so her reaction was probably justified.

The girl smiled very sheepishly and climbed down from the tree. Smudges of dirt still adorned her pale cheeks and she gave Minerva a small smile as she extended a hesitant hand.

"Hello," she replied simply. Minerva stared at the hand for a while, until it occurred to her that it was custom among the Muggles to shake hands. She grasped it and the girl shook her hand heartily.

"Do you often climb trees at 6 am in the morning?" Minerva finally ventured.

The girl laughed, again that oddly cheerful sound. "Sometimes. But don't tell Ma, she gets mad if she knows that I did it again."

"Don't worry," Minerva answered, maybe a little stiffly, she noticed, angry at herself. "Why do you do it?"

The girl shrugged and a few strands of auburn hair fell from her bun, curling on her shoulders. Her pale eyes were mischievous as she grinned widely. "It is fun I suppose."

"Fun?" Minerva repeated doubtfully. "Really?"

"Yes. Come on, try it." The girl didn't wait for an answer, but climbed back up on the tree nimbly. Soon she had disappeared nearly entirely from view, only the hem of her skirt was still visible. Minerva stared after her for a second, then she shook her head and followed. Propriety be damned- Minerva had never been one for it anyway. Diligence and Properness, yes, but propriety? Why should she care what others thought of her?

It took her some time until she had reached the girl. The tree was higher than she would have expected and she was climbing slowly and carefully, seeing that she had never climbed trees before. The bark was rough under her hands and she found certain patterns in it, the structures in which the tree had grown over the years.

"Hello again." The girl was smiling at her from her perch on a thick branch just over Minerva's head, who followed the other's example and sat down opposite of her on another branch. For a while, they just sat there, looking at each other. Then another smile lit the girl's face.

"I am Abigail Mackenzie. And who are you?"  
Minerva, a bit thrown off by that abrupt question, looked at her in surprise. "Minerva McGonagall," she said finally.

"How nice to meet you, Minerva."

"Likewise," she replied friendly and could not resist asking: "So what is so wonderful about this tree that you keep climbing it?"

"That," Abigail was quick to reply, "is something I can show you. Come over here."

Minerva obeyed wordlessly, but her eyes went wide when Abigail without much ado stood up on the branch. "Are you mad!" she exclaimed. "You are going to fall!"

"Relax," Abigail laughed, "and come up yourself."

Minerva rose on wobbly knees. However, she was not about to defer to Abigail- she Minerva McGonagall, Scottish witch and proud Gryffindor could do this, even if it earned her a broken leg- or two. The tree's green mass finally disappeared as she slowly righted herself in a standing position and she found herself standing right at the treetop, gazing at the Scottish scenery that unfolded in front of her eyes. The pale red strip at the horizon had made way for the morning sun, which broke abruptly through the fog and nearly blinded her. It lit the grey fog spheres and put glittering marks on the surface of the lake. A mild breeze rushed through the trees and the leaves quivered softly.

"Don't stare at the lake for too long," Abigail admonished quietly, "or the Kelpie will come and fetch you."  
Minerva smiled slightly. Kelpies, commonly believed to be water horses that lured humans, especially children into the water so that they would drown and could be devoured by the Kelpie, were real in the magical world. It was unwise to underestimate them, that much was true, but a skilled wizard usually did not fall for their traps.

Humouring Abigail, Minerva turned away from the lake and around to her companion.

"It's beautiful," she admitted quietly.

Abigail nodded. "That's why I come here nearly daily." She twisted a lock of auburn hair around her finger and sighed. "I don't have much time left as I have to start work at 8 o'clock."

"You work?" Minerva wondered. Sometimes she forgot that Muggle children were required to work from an early age on in order to support their family. It was so easy to forget what world they were living in when she was in the magic community.

"Yes," Abigail confirmed. "I've been working for a year now, mostly helping Ma in the shop. My family owns a grocery store, you know." Abruptly, she shot Minerva a suspicious look. "Where did you say you are from again?"

"Um," Minerva floundered. "From up there," she answered finally vaguely, indicating the hills in the distance.

"Surely not from the ruins of that Manor up there?" Abigail stared at her, aghast.

Ruins? Oh dear Lord, the protection charm.

"Uh…no," Minerva lied quickly. "We live farther away. My parents don't like me to go outside much."

"Really?" The suspicion was still present on Abigail's face. "What does your father do?"  
"Umm…" She couldn't very well say that he was a retired Auror, now could she? No- she needed to find a reason for Abigail never having seen her before and which would also explain her long spans of absence, the time that she was in Hogwarts. With a jolt, she remembered London and the building she'd read about only fleetingly, simply because the finance sector of the Muggles did not interest her. But it had sounded important enough, official, the work of the kind which would be a reason for an honest man to spend much time far away from home, at least in the mind of the Muggles- Minerva hoped. So she blurted out the few things she could remember- (that building she had read about had had something to do with money and with sales and exchanges):

"He sells money- at the LSE."

Abigail stared at her. "The LSE?"

"The London Stock Exchange," Minerva answered in a superior tone of voice and hoped that she sounded knowledgeable enough to convey the impression of all-encompassing wisdom regarding the London Stock Exchange.

"Oh," Abigail commented contemplatively, "it sounds like a lot of work."

Of course she would have never admitted to Minerva that she had no idea what the LSE was; but the latter couldn't have been gladder about the fact that Abigail seemed to have a proud if quite stubborn nature.

So she only hmm-ed acquiescently and added, almost like an afterthought: "That's why he is often in London. And my mother is often at her sister's. Me, I am at a boarding school in Scotland." Minerva paused, realizing embarrassedly that she had sounded somewhat arrogant. Abigail, however, did not seem to have noticed. She looked absent-minded, then gasped.

"Oh dear, I better hurry!" With that Minerva's companion slid down from the tree. "I have to get back!"

Minerva looked at the time. "It's not even 7 o'clock yet," she called after the girl.

"No," Abigail laughed dreamily, "But I have to take care of some things before!"

"What things?" Minerva asked loudly.

"Catching butterflies," Abigail grinned at her and Minerva was left to stare at her back, as she skipped merrily through the wet meadows. The hem of her blue-white-chequered dress was at least six inches deep in mud, but she did not seem to mind. Minerva shook her head as she looked after her- if it had been anyone else she would have been insulted but Abigail- for some odd reason she believed her. Abigail, cheerful and sincere as she was, was really trying to catch butterflies.

The thought made her smile.

* * *

The next day found her visiting Abigail in the village. She had never been to the village before and had Fletcher give her a look-over before she went down to see the Muggles. "Miss Minerva, you should wear your hair in a simple style," he had explained. "And the Miss shouldn't take her best dress. The Non-Magic-People are hard-working and they don't have much time in the morning for elaborate grooming. They prefer functional clothes as they are less costly and much more practical to work in." So Minerva had found a simple blue cotton dress, completely different from what her mother had her wear whenever she had the opportunity to force her daughters to attend social events and had her hair done in a simple braid that nearly reached her waist. She clutched a bouquet of flowers to her chest as Fletcher had told her that it was customary among the Muggles to bring flowers when visiting someone.

It was nearing nine am in the morning when Minerva reached the village. Apprehensively she took a look around. A low row of old houses made of grey stones lined each side of a gravel road that ended in front of a church on the one end of the village while it led to the main road that passed the village in the distance on the other end. Only few people were on the street; the others were presumably working inside. An elderly woman with grey hair gathered in a simple bun was cleaning the windows of her shop with a rag that she wrung out in a wooden bucket from time to time. Her voice rang out clearly in the morning air as she joked with a man in a black suit who wore an eyeglass and leaned onto a wooden cane.

"Now, Doctor, why won't you agree with me that tis a fine morning?" she scolded lightly, while the man laughed and raked a hand through his sun-flecked greying hair. "Why, Mrs. Goodie, I believe you are right about this being a fine morning, but it is not fine weather. There I shall have to disagree with you because-"

He never finished his sentence because in this moment Minerva passed them and they both fell silent and stared at her warily.

"Good Morning," Minerva finally ventured timidly.

The old woman nodded at her, while the doctor added a quiet "Good morning, lass."

As the silence stretched on and the pair just looked at her with increasing curiosity, Minerva finally stammered: "Excuse me, but would you know where I can find Abigail Mackenzie?"

Immediately the look of the old Lady became warmer. "You're a friend of hers coming to visit her?" she asked in that unmistakable Scottish brogue that coloured Minerva's words too. She didn't notice it though; only when Tom laughed and commented on it from time to time. He had told her that he loved her accent and it had made her smile. It was hard to make Tom laugh and so she did not care if it was at her expense. But the thought of Tom only made her sad, so she pushed it away and nodded at the old Lady. "Yes, I am, Madam."

"Just go straight down the street until you come to the shop that says Mackenzie's. She should be inside, working."

"Thank you," Minerva curtsied politely and nodded at the Doctor.  
"A lovely, polite young Lady," the old woman commented from behind her quite loudly to the Doctor and although Minerva did not turn around she felt how a blush spread over her cheeks. She was not used to being complimented by anyone else other than teachers.

There was still very little going on on the street, but when she looked in the windows of the few shops she could see people busy working away- the baker was arranging bread rolls on a tray, a woman was cleaning her windows and from somewhere came the sound of sheep and cows. An ancient-looking carriage stood on the side of the road next to a straw-filled handcart. Minerva smiled. It was so different from what she was used to; yet much simpler, much more honest in a way. Her mother would have been aghast, but Minerva liked it.

She had been avidly searching for the shop that said "Mackenzie's" in the mean time. It turned out to be a little house at the end of the street, a bit smaller than the others but also made out of grey stones. Tendrils of vine climbed up at the side and framed the small windows. The ground floor was made up of a bigger window that allowed a look into a small room. Apples were arranged in a neat row on the window ledge right next to the wooden door. "Mackenzie's groceries" it said in faded golden letters on a black wooden plague right above the entry.

Suddenly nervous, Minerva knocked.

"Come in, please," a cheery voice called.

Minerva entered and when her eyes had gotten used to the dim light, she could make out Abigail, clad in a simple brown dress with a white pinafore. "Oh, Minerva!" she commented. "How lovely to see you so soon again."

"Likewise," Minerva responded with a smile. She was really starting to like Abigail- her cheerfulness and her dreamy, easy-going manner made her to a wonderful person to be around.

Before Minerva could even start feeling awkward, Abigail continued:

"Would you like to help me with my work? I have to make some nets for the onions."

"Of course I would like to help you," Minerva was quick to reply. She had never made nets before, but it shouldn't be too hard, right?

Abigail smiled and moved to a small door at the back of the room. "Wait a moment, please," she called. Minerva took the time to look around. She was in a small room with stone walls and the only light source was the window she had seen before. Shelves hung upon each wall, filled with bottles or herbs in small pots. More apples were stacked up in a pyramid in a corner. A rough net made of brown yarn dangled over the apples from a hook fastened on the ceiling. There were a lot of other, free hooks, and Minerva counted them with trepidation. She counted twenty hooks in total. Well, still making nets shouldn't be that hard, should it? Quickly moving on, she let her eyes take in the room. A scale was propped up on the wall right next to Minerva and sausages were hanging from the ceiling in another corner. Before she could see more, Abigail had returned, her hands full of the same brown yarn Minerva had seen earlier. Oh dear.

Half an hour later, Minerva had to remedy her earlier opinion. Making nets was harder than it looked. Her fingers hurt. Her legs hurt. Everything hurt. Her head hurt, too, come to think of it.

"Can we stop now?" she sighed plaintively.

Abigail just laughed at her. "Where do you come from, Minerva?" she giggled. "We haven't even finished half our work yet. Canty, canty, Minerva!"

"Who says anything about being lively and brisk?" a new voice demanded from the door.

Abigail dropped the net she was working on and jumped up, hugging the young man that stood in the doorframe joyously. "Michael! How nice to see you! How long have you been home?"

The young man, Michael, chuckled and extracted himself from Abigail's grip. "Easy there, little sister. I've been home for just a minute before you decided to assault me."

Abigail grinned sheepishly and then dragged her brother over to Minerva, who had got up. "Minerva, this is my older brother Michael. He has returned from town today. Michael, this is my friend Minerva." Minerva beamed a little at the last part; it had been long since anyone had called her friend. Tom was not really a friend- he was well- Tom. That pretty much explained everything.

"Nice to meet you, Minerva," Michael said politely and extended a hand. Minerva shook it and stared at him. That was about all she had been able to do since she had first got a good look at him a minute before. Michael was quite tall, about her brother's height though much younger than Andrew- maybe about three years older than herself- and he was wearing a dark brown suit and a cap that he had taken off before shaking her hand. But that was not what made Minerva stare at him. Abigail's brother had the darkest brown eyes she had ever seen. She kept staring at him until he finally cleared his throat somewhat awkwardly and she realised that she had neither let go of his hand nor had she said a word. She was behaving like the world's biggest idiot. _Oh dear._

"Oh God, I'm sorry," she blustered and blushed fiercely, "I- you- I mean- I- you just caught me a bit unawares. It's also nice to meet you. Michael."

His dark, neatly parted head bobbed up and down as he nodded, grinned and then looked down at their joined hands. "Would you mind letting me go then, Minerva?"

Minerva wanted to crawl in a hole somewhere and die. Oh dear didn't even begin to cover it.  
"I'm so sorry," she gasped and let go of his hand as if burned. "I'm not myself today."

"What are you like when you are yourself then?" A cheeky smile adorned his face.  
"Um..." Minerva floundered. _**Think of something witty!**_ The inner voice thundered.

"Not like this..." she finally replied lamely. _Yeah, not like that either._ The inner voice sounded exasperated but Minerva had to concede that it was right.

"Very well then," Michael smiled. He had obviously the same happy disposition like his sister. "So what's new, Abby?" He turned to Abigail, who, Minerva saw, had been watching the whole thing with amusement. She should go now, she realised.

"I-" she began and paused as the siblings looked at her expectantly. Merlin, what was wrong with her today? She couldn't even string a coherent sentence together.

"I'm sorry but I have to go."

"Already?" Abigail sounded sad and it occurred to Minerva that maybe the girl was as lonely as herself. The village was not very big, so there were probably few girls around in Abigail's or her age.

"But I'll come back some other day," she offered.  
"Soon?" Abigail sounded eager.

"Why not," Minerva replied easily. She was starting to consider Abigail a friend- and her first real one. Elma- well- didn't look at her. Had she ever been a real friend? Had she not just wanted to gain easy access to Minerva's homework? Minerva shoved the thought aside and smiled at Michael, who nodded at her. "We would be happy to welcome you here soon again." The smile he flashed made Minerva beam maybe just a little bit too much.

"Bye," she called cheerily and flung the door open with maybe a little bit too much enthusiasm. Abigail chuckled behind her. "See you soon, Minerva," she called.

"Yes," she yelled back and skipped back through the village, offering a cheerful greeting to Mrs. Goodie and the Doctor, who were still standing in the same place.

And it was not until Minerva had passed the blooming meadow, entered the dark manor, ran the wooden staircase up and stopped out of breath in her room to stare out of the window over to the village that she finally realised something. Something that made her pause and frown.

She hadn't spent one thought on one Tom Riddle for the whole day.

* * *

_tbc...please, review! It would make my week!_


	9. 1940 Part IV

_Thank you for your reviews, meshalok, VanillaFieldsofGold, DarkLord0066 and Megii of Mysteri Ous Stranger! I accidentally replaced this chapter with the latest one for a few hours today and had to re-upload it, sorry about that :)_

_Sachita_

* * *

**Chapter Eight**

**Hogwarts Express, September 1940**

Minerva listened to the soft rumbling sounds of the Hogwarts Express that carried her steadfastly through rolling English Hills back to school for her Fifth Year. For once, she had been nearly loath to leave home. For once, home did not mean abject loneliness and long cold hours spent perusing ancient volumes in the McGonagall Library, but it meant friendship and laughter; Abigail and Michael. Or rather Michael and Abigail? _Get a grip, silly,_ the inner voice scolded. After all it wasn't as if they'd be returning to Hogwarts with her, and with her thoughts abruptly turning gloomy again, she stared out of the window.

Raindrops clashed violently against the smooth glass pane, ceaselessly and intensely, eventually merging to streams alongside the glass, then further along the thin metal hull of the train, driven by the force of the wind. Finally defeated by gravity and speed, they hurtled past the train as tiny water missiles that soon disappeared in the persistent English morning fog.

The interior of the train was nearly silent compared to the cacophony caused by the rain storm going on outside. Only muted sounds told of the world outside; a stone stirred up by the train's momentum coming up to clatter quietly against its hull, a twig of a random tree brushing wetly against the windows…

Minerva buried her fingers in the red upholstery of her seat and stared mutely over to Caelus, who was seated in his cage, squawking quizzically at her. Shuddering at the sudden sound, she directed her look again to the world flying by outside. Houses, cars, streets, trees, hills- all nearly swallowed up by light yet persistent mist.

She was not lonely, Minerva told herself firmly. Most definitely not. So maybe she had always found a seat amongst the other Gryffindors in the years before, but today she was not in the mood, seeing that Elma would undoubtedly glare at her throughout the whole trip and there was nothing she could say to the others. So she was maybe sitting on her own, but that did not imply that she was lonely. Most certainly not.

She had seen Tom on her way to her current seating place. He had been sitting in a compartment filled with Slytherins, both older and younger than him, and although he had been sitting directly among them, he had managed to seem detached, alone and king-like whilst sometimes receiving awe-filled looks from his- Minerva was almost tempted to use the term "followers". When she had passed the compartment, his impenetrable mask had not disappeared, but she had not expected it to. Whilst the other Slytherins had sneered some greeting at her, he had remained impassive, silent, cold even without saying a single word. In that moment Minerva had understood that she was not forgiven. Tom Riddle did not do forgiveness. Shuddering finally in the face of so much coldness, Minerva had turned around and walked to where she was now sitting.

Shaking herself out of her reverie, she leaned back and closed her eyes. Although Elma was not speaking to her, she had somehow got herself the reputation of a Minnie Mouse at the whole school and Tom might as well be a block of ice, she was not lonely. No, Minerva was not lonely. She opened her eyes as realization hit her. So maybe she was lonely. No use to deny it anymore. But she would weather this storm because she was strong. And that was the truth. It had always been the truth as far as Minerva McGonagall was concerned.

* * *

**Hogwarts, Mid-September 1940**

"The Ministry of Magic considers introducing a law prohibiting underage magic outside officially-authorised zones and buildings. However, if such a law should become reality, the Ministry thinks it best to wait with its introduction until the war-like conditions that our country currently finds itself in have passed ," Minerva read quietly, sitting on her bed in the Gryffindor Fifth Year girls' dormitory.

She was alone since it was dinner-time, but she had not felt like dinner today.

She had to take care of some things-writing letters to her Muggle friends- and wished to be alone.

Crossing her arms against a sudden chill, Minerva hugged the _Daily Prophet_ close to her chest and walked over to one of the windows, peering at the stormy autumn countryside that lay wind-blown before her eyes in the falling dusk.

War-like conditions? War, she thought. That was how it was supposed to be called. Word of the deaths of several European wizard families in the last months had spread- they had been killed quickly, most of them at night, when they were less alert and as such easier to overpower. No-one knew exactly who the murderer was but all evidence pointed to the dark influence of Gellert Grindelwald, though there was no telling what the dark wizard aimed to achieve with his actions.

Not only was the wizard population in disquiet though. Air raids had started on several British cities, including London. The reports had come in in early September; only days after school had begun again. The _Daily Prophet_, for once in a strangely subdued mood had written: "Bombings on London leave several hundreds dead and more homeless."

There had been no mention of the word "Muggle" in the whole article although the attack had naturally been on Muggle London and Minerva had set the paper down in grim realisation as to why the term had not been used: They were all together in this predicament, Muggle and Wizard alike.

Sighing quietly, she withdrew a stack of ordinary Muggle paper from underneath her bed and walked over to the window sill, setting the stack down on it. Abigail had made her promise to write, daily, if possible. Daily was certainly out of the question, but she could easily do weekly.

Setting a quill down on the blank paper, Minerva watched how it formed a puddle of blue ink that sank into the structure of the paper quickly. Hissing in frustration, she withdrew her wand and erased the blue spot.

Putting the quill down again, she finally wrote: "Dear Abigail, Dear Michael". Frustrated she put the quill back into the ink pot and rested her head on her hands. Dear Merlin, having Muggles as Pen Pals was more difficult than she would have thought. I have made Prefect. No, she couldn't write that. Or maybe she could. "I have made Prefect," she wrote and crossed it out, annoyed. That had sounded pompous. Finally she settled for an innocent "School is as usual. I work hard, but sometimes it just gets boring."

Having finished the letter, Minerva was displeased when she realised that it contained barely anything than pleasantries and empty chit-chat.

But she couldn't write "What was funny today was that Seamus Smith managed to set Professor Dumbledore on fire in Transfiguration and then forgot that he is a wizard, trying to extinguish the flames helpfully with his pot of ink". Minerva snickered a little at the memory of an ink-drenched Professor Dumbledore. He had wrung his beard out and had sent a glare in Minerva's direction due to her ill-concealed fit of laughter. "Do try to contain yourself, will you Miss McGonagall?" he had asked but the twinkle had been present in his eye and Minerva had promptly started out in another fit of giggles, while the Professor just shook his head at her...

Smiling fondly, she finally snorted. Oh and yes, while she was at it, she could conclude with "I did tell you I can do magic, didn't I? Oh and by the way, Kelpies are real." Now that would go over well. She had to stick to the pleasantries; there was no way around it.

Opening the window to the evening air, Minerva whistled for Caelus. Pompous and arrogant owl that he was, he much preferred a tree to the owlery and thus, Minerva had given up going over there. It had been the cause for many disputes between them as Caelus often took his time to answer to Minerva's calls and was not reachable since he was not in the owlery.

This time, however, he came on swift wings and Minerva tied the letter to his leg quickly. She had instructed him to deliver it to a Muggle post box, having equipped it with what she hoped was the proper amount of Muggle stamps- alright so maybe it looked a little...colourful...now, but she had decided that she would rather be safe than sorry. Caelus had been indignant but Minerva was quite sure that Muggles would react strangely to an owl delivering the mail.

Waving after Caelus as he disappeared in the dawn, Minerva inhaled the cold evening air deeply. It tasted of snow and approaching winter. She exhaled quietly, her thoughts returning to the war raging somewhere beyond the horizon, there- there- not far away at all. Dark clouds were gathering in the distance. A storm was coming, and if the reports from the Continent were anything to go by, Europe would have a hard time weathering it.

The time ahead would be a balancing act, gaping chasms on each side of the thin rope they walked on, and no-one could say whether they would arrive safely on the other side.

Outside, it was beginning to rain.

* * *

It was a few days later and Minerva was sitting in Professor Accuratore's class, suppressing a long yawn. She couldn't detach herself fully this time though, as she usually did in his lessons. Ever since Tom had managed to make her fall from grace with the Professor, he had been blatantly ignoring her whenever she put her hand up, so there was no point in paying attention to him ranting about things she already knew.

This day, however, things were different.

There was a kind of nervous tension hanging in the air, as evident in the hunched shoulders of her classmates whose eyes kept flickering nervously either over to the window or the door, waiting for something, anything- a message saying that London was destroyed, that their family was dead, the house was gone, their siblings had not returned from Continental Europe or even that their cat had died of a stroke- anything was possible these days. It was only getting worse with each day.

A persistent light tapping finally alerted Minerva to Andrew McFadden ceaselessly drumming his fingers on the table in front of her. Professor Accuratore twitched every time Andrew's fingers impacted with the tabletop.

Finally, fed up, he barked a sharp: "Quit it, McFadden!"

Andrew, who probably hadn't even been aware of what he was doing, blushed beet-red and stilled his hands. "Yes, sir," he murmured contritely.

The Professor frowned and turned back to his notes, then waved his wand to jot down some keywords on the blackboard in his spidery handwriting. The class, knowing what was expected of them obediently raised their quills and for the next few moments all that could be heard was the diligent sound of feverish scribbling. Minerva, who was passive-aggressively rebelling by not taking notes about things that she already knew, took the opportunity to study the Professor more closely.

She had noticed it before; he did look quite frazzled today. His normally so-correctly done shirt was half-sticking out of his waistband, his tie-bow was quite sloppily-fixed and Minerva was quite sure that there were coffee stains on his cuffs.

_Feeling the strain, eh, Professor? _She thought darkly. _I can imagine being a spy for Grindelwald is exhausting. There has to be proof somewhere of him being a traitor! It has to._

Finding that evidence would of course mean that the Professor would finally be arrested and then she would never have to suffer through one of his rants again. Oh yes. That alone was reason enough. So she just had to- TAP- she had to- TAP TAP- she had- TAP TAP TAP- she- TAP TAP TAP TAP-! Oh Merlin!

"Andrew," Minerva hissed venomously, "could you keep it down?"

Andrew half-turned around to her, brown eyes glittering aggressively.

"Shut it, McGonagall!" he snapped and turned away.

If anything, the tapping on the tabletop got louder. Minerva sighed. _Oh well. _Andrew had never been of the polite sort, though he had miraculously ceased his antics when Professor Accuratore had reprimanded him. Maybe she ought to become a teacher, too. Then he would listen to her. Professor McGonagall. A soft chuckle escaped her. Now that had a ridiculous ring to it.

But back to Professor Accuratore and his espionage activities, she reminded herself sternly. The man in question was still going on about something, gesticulating wildly and as usual, getting nowhere.

Frustrated Minerva pinched the bridge of her nose. She couldn't believe that someone who clearly was a traitor could work at Hogwarts. Professor Dumbledore knew about the message- why hadn't he done anything yet? Or if he was trying to do something, why hadn't he succeeded? It had been months since they had discovered that message.

"Alright, class, that's it for today. Remember to write that essay. And McFadden, don't make noise in my class again or I will take so many points from Gryffindor that your classmates will make you regret your negligence."

"Yes,sir," Andrew murmured dully, yet defiantly.

* * *

Minerva trudged slowly to the door, still deep in thought.

"Miss McGonagall!"

Surprised by the harsh summon, Minerva looked up.

Staring right back at her with a murderous expression was Professor Accuratore.

"Professor," she stammered, her heart suddenly beating wildly. As ridiculous as that sounded, she feared he might have read her thoughts.

"Miss McGonagall," the Professor repeated coolly, "please come with me."

Playing for time, Minerva raised her eyebrows, attempting to appear collected and unperturbed. Her eyes darted to the door, which slowly closed behind the last of her classmates.

"Is there something you need, Professor, or can we deal with the matter here?"

The Professor smiled unpleasantly. His eyes were hard as he surveyed her with a frown.

"Since you left me little choice, I am unable to leave you much choice either. You will have to come with me. I am not asking, I am demanding."

Minerva's heart thudded wildly in her chest. She backed a few steps away and let her hand wander surreptitiously to her wand pocket. Her other hand found the door handle behind her back.

The Professor hadn't moved. He just regarded her levelly. "I suppose there is a considerable amount of interest on your side to see your friend unharmed, is there?"

Frozen to the spot, Minerva could only gape at the Professor. Tom-? How?

"What have you done to him?" she spat, while her hands started to tremble.

"Oh nothing yet," Professor Accuratore replied nonchalantly, smiling in face of her fury. "And give me that- expelliarmus!" Minerva's wand came flying, while she was still caught off guard. "You see, everything depends on your cooperation."

Minerva- helpless and wandless -could only stare at him in shocked silence. Tom? How could he have found out what Tom and she had done? Had Tom been attempting to find out more about Accuratore's activities and had been caught red-handed by the latter? That the Professor was a spy was now more than obvious, seeing that he had dropped all pretences.

Minerva did not even react to Professor Accuratore shoving her along the corridor roughly; she went rather willingly with him. All concerns for her own safety vanished when she thought of what that vile man might have done to Tom.

She stumbled into Professor Accuratore's study, courtesy of a particular rough shove and nearly heaved a sigh of relief. Sitting tied to a chair in a corner of the study was Tom, pale and defiantly-glaring, but otherwise unharmed.

Relief still forced Minerva's legs as she rushed over to him. "Tom! Oh Merlin, Tom, are you alright?"

Before he could answer, Accuratore chimed in: "Well isn't that lovely...How helpful of you to go over there." A moment later Minerva knew what he had meant with that statement as she found herself bound to the chair as well and sitting back to back with Tom.

"What a wonderful ingenious and innovative way to rescue me," the sarcastic Slytherin muttered behind her.

"Well, what would you have done?" Minerva shot back. A small part of her relished in hearing Tom's voice, seeing that he had ignored her since that fateful meeting in Hyde Park. But she really had no time for that now.

"He had me cornered, alone," she continued, "and he took my wand."

Tom scoffed and snorted harshly, a sound that reverberated in his chest and made the fine hair on Minerva's arms stand on end.

"So you shouldn't have let him corner you. And you definitely shouldn't have gone with him. You should have brought help."

"If it had been you instead of me would you just have left me here?" Minerva asked incredulously with just a hint of hurt in her voice. She was proud of herself for hiding it so well.

"No." Tom sounded impatient. "I would have brought help. There is a difference, careful consideration and deviousness being the point of the matter."

Minerva rolled her eyes. "Oh, how very Slytherin of you!"

"And how very Gryffindor of you to try and mount a one-woman-rescue-mission without thinking of the consequences first," Tom retorted, but there was something indefinable in his voice, something different and fond that Minerva couldn't place but which made her secretly quiver inside.

Conversationally, she asked eventually: "So if you are so devious, how come you are here, tied up with me?"

At this point Professor Accuratore stepped in. "I hate to interrupt this lovers' spat," he announced sarcastically, "but I am somewhat eager to get down to business."

Minerva glared at him, her confidence restored by the fact that Tom was right next to her, alive and well.

"So," Professor Accuratore began conversationally, "after I had found young Mister Riddle here hiding behind the wood panelling of my room trying to spy on me, I decided that the logical conclusion was to retrieve you, Miss McGonagall, as well. You both don't have your intelligence for nothing." He paused, then continued in a tone, that although not overly threatening, made shivers race down Minerva's spine.

"Having to assume that it was also you who alerted Dumbledore to my...shall we say...second profession, I knew that it was becoming more and more dangerous for me to pursue my activities, certainly more tiresome because Dumbledore started breathing down my neck. And I knew who I had to blame."

He glared at them. "But, he added, starting to pace, "I was prepared to make my exit, was prepared to disappear without anyone knowing and leaving you to it. Then, I discovered Mister Riddle spying on me."

Suddenly he advanced menacingly on them.

Minerva backed away the farthest she could, pressing herself against Tom's solid warmth behind her as the Professor touched her cheek with his wand, outlining the contours of her face. "Such a stupid girl," he muttered, then touched Tom's wavy mess of hair with the tip of his wand next. "And such a stupid boy. There is glory to be found in the service to a Dark Lord, did you not ever contemplate this? You might be young, but you, both of you with your wit and intelligence could truly go far, very far…" Tom and Minerva remained silent and very tense.

Accuratore once again paced the length of his study, shifting the wand from one hand to the other, obviously still undecided as to what to do with them. Minerva sucked in a sharp breath as she suddenly remembered something Elma had told her once. "Know your enemies' weaknesses," was what her mother had told her once- the only thing her mother had ever told her that she could benefit from now.

"It was not glory for you though, was it, Professor?" The steps on the mahogany boards faltered and stopped. The Professor stood still with his back to them, a white-knuckled fist clutching his wand.

In the weighty silence, Minerva ploughed on, feeling Tom becoming even tenser behind her.

"They killed her. That's why you decided you had to join up, no? To punish those who were in your eyes responsible for the death of your wife."

"They were responsible!" Accuratore's reply was a tortured scream. "Not only for Eleanor's death! They took Lucy, my beautiful daughter, as well. She had your hair colour. And she did not deserve to die. All because of some drunk Muggle car driver."

He took a few steps toward them, his face a mask of fury and grief, looking for all sounds and purposes like a man possessed.

"So I have to punish them, don't you see? For what they did to my family! Grindelwald tells us what to do. It's for the Greater Good, he said, and I believed him. No wizard shall ever feel that same sense of loss again because of the brutality and crudity of those Muggles!"

His hot breath hit Minerva's face and she recoiled in disgust, but then sat up as straight as the bonds would allow her. "No, Professor," she said clearly. "Your family is dead. But that is not the fault of all Muggles. Your daughter is dead and that is horrible, but what right do you have to make other parents suffer? What rights do you have to take their daughters?" Minerva paused and then added coldly: "None."

The Professor reared back as if she had slapped him. Then he laughed, a sound that started off as slightly maniacal but then just sounded very sad.

"Tell that to someone who cares, Miss McGonagall," he said clearly. "I might as well be dead. But I won't allow this cause to falter. First I am going to burn the evidence."

With these words he walked over to his desk and swept a stack of documents in the fireplace. The bright flames eagerly devoured the parchment and Accuratore watched them for a moment with a satisfied smile. Then he turned to them. "You left me with no choice."

But as he raised his wand, the sound of hurried footsteps came from the outside.

Accuratore took a long look at them and at the door, then he walked unhurriedly over to the statue of a grim-looking goblin situated on the southern wall of the room. He tipped at the goblin with his wand and said coldly over his shoulder: "I'll leave you to it."

A passageway, barely big enough for a man to fit through was revealed as the statue of the goblin swung, similar to a door, to the right. Accuratore disappeared in the dark passageway without saying another word and the statue swung soundlessly back to its original place.

* * *

Mere seconds later, the door was wrenched open. First most was Professor Dumbledore – Minerva had never been gladder to see his wise face- then Professor Klein, the professor of the Astronomy, Professor Merrythought who taught Defence against the Dark Arts and finally Madam Scrittura, the Librarian, who was very pale.

"The passageway," Minerva yelled before anyone could have said anything, "he went that way." She pointed at the statue of the goblin. Dumbledore nodded, while Professors Klein and Merrythought hurried over to the statue. It didn't take them long to figure out how to open the entrance to the passageway and soon they had too both disappeared in the darkness. Dumbledore meanwhile cut them loose.

Minerva and Tom came shakily to their feet, both avoiding looking the Professor in the eye.

"That was a very dangerous venture, Miss McGonagall, Mister Riddle," Dumbledore finally stated gravelly.

"We're sorry," they both said, but while Minerva was genuinely contrite, defiance coloured Tom's words.

"However," Professor Dumbledore continued, "it takes courage to do what you feel the ones who are responsible for have failed at. I honour this and thus award both of your houses with ten points each. But I must ask you to refrain from such reckless endeavours in the future. Is that clear?"

"Yes, Professor," Minerva mumbled and Tom merely nodded.

"How did you know we were going to be here?" Minerva eventually asked what she had been wondering about the last minutes.

"You didn't turn up to our weekly tea session, Miss McGonagall, and Miss Pomfrey informed me that she had seen you leave with Professor Accuratore. It wasn't difficult to guess the rest." Dumbledore's words were short and conscise. Minerva cringed inwardly, for she knew that he was most likely still angry with her, for his way of speaking normally resembled meandering hills and meadows, rich with elaborate metaphors and intelligent plays on words. At the moment though, he spoke as if handling a butcher's knife; short and to the point.

"Now before I shall ask you to return to your dorms, I would like to know what Mister Accuratore told you."

"He destroyed evidence of his activities as a spy," Minerva put in quickly and pointed to the fireplace.

Dumbledore hmm-ed acquiescently and a quick flick of his wand ended the dance of the flames and left only ash. "We shall see if we can recover anything," he stated calmly. "Now did he say anything else?"

"We learned about his motivations for his joining of Grindelwald," Minerva explained. In face of Dumbledore's sudden inquisitive look, she felt compelled to add: "The deaths of his wife and daughter-"

"Ah yes," Dumbledore mumbled, "Eleanor and Lucy. Regrettable, very very regrettable."

"But don't their deaths also justify his actions?" Tom suddenly interrupted.

Dumbledore looked at him sharply over the rims of his half-moon glasses.

"Do they really? Do the deaths of his family, as regrettable and terrible an incident it might have been, justify a man joining another man intent on bringing destruction and death over countless other families? I shall hope that your words were spoken in haste, Mister Riddle."

The look on Tom's face could only be called submissive, but for a second Minerva imagined to see an ugly sneer hidden just beneath the surface, like inherent darkness only revealed by a passing sunray.

"You are right, of course, Professor," he simply said.

Dumbledore shot a last sharp look at him and then nodded once: "Please return to your dorms now, Miss McGonagall; Mister Riddle."

No ten minutes later on that evening Tom and Minerva sat on the roof of the Astronomy Tower, neither feeling as if they could go to bed just now, no matter what the Professor had said. The day had been long and eventful and even though they were both nearly falling over from tiredness they were too wired-up to think of sleep.

Tom had brought a bottle of lemonade with from the kitchens and he took a long swig, then wiped his mouth with his hand and passed the bottle over to Minerva.

"Thanks," she mumbled and closed her fingers around the cool bottleneck.

It was a cold night and Minerva found herself shivering. Tom shot her a quick sideways look.

"Come over here," he said quietly, weariness taking some of the cutting edge that his words normally had away. Minerva wanted to argue the point, but fatigue and cold eventually made her give in. It was a bit awkward at first, having Tom's arms around her- not to mention improper, good Lord what would her Mother say! and she stifled a smile at that sentiment. However, he radiated warmth and that eventually eradicated all awkwardness.

"Tom," Minerva eventually started uncomfortably, "about that day in Hyde Park…"

He was silent and then simply asked: "Yes?"

"I wish to apologise," Minerva told him very quietly. "It was certainly not my intention to hurt you. My mother is very prejudicial and I am afraid we both misinterpreted some things. I hope you forgive me, for I do value your friendship."

Tom didn't say anything and then, after some minutes of silence, replied nearly roughly: "Forget it." If there was more to it, he didn't say anything , and leaning against him like that, Minerva couldn't take a look at his face.

She finally chose to interpret his words as Tom's own way of forgiving. She ignored her hurt pride- apologies had never been her forte. After all, it meant exposing a part of her to the public that she liked to keep diligently hidden.

Tom, oblivious to her musings, eventually asked: "What do you think?"

"Of what?"

"Of today," Minerva looked over to the persistent fog that clung to the dark hills, making them oddly ghost-like in the silence of the night.

"He is a madman," she said lowly and watched how her breath formed white clouds in the air.

Tom made a noncommittal sound and thus Minerva continued. "Did you mean it?"

"What?" he asked sharply.

"What you said to Dumbledore regarding Accuratore- that his deeds were justifiable due to his loss."

There was a pause and then Tom replied: "I never said they were justifiable, just understandable. Isn't it right to want revenge?" Bitterly, he added: "Personally, I can understand that he hates Muggles. They have never been good to me either."  
"So you would also support genocide on them?" Minerva cried disbelievingly.

Tom was silent for a few minutes, too long in Minerva's opinion. Then he answered coldly: "No, of course not." His reply was monotonous, almost bored.

Minerva remained silent and stared over to the black contours of the Forbidden Forest, barely visible against the blue night. They picked their conversation up a few minutes later, but a hard-to-define sense of disquiet remained in Minerva that she couldn't shake off for the duration of that evening.

* * *

**Hogwarts, October 1940**

It had become October and while there was no news on Accuratore- they had failed to capture him as of now- Minerva and Tom had fallen back into their routine of easy banter accompanied by constant underlying tension. Professors Merrythought and Dumbledore had taken over Professor Accuratore's classes for the moment, but a replacement would supposedly come soon.

On a warm day, Minerva was outside on the Grounds, attempting to write a letter, when a clear English voice interrupted her.

"Who are you writing to?" Minerva looked over her shoulder.

Standing underneath the tree next to the one she was currently sitting under and writing was Tom. The pallor of his face formed a startling to the reds and yellows of the autumn leaves. If he was a picture, Minerva mused, one might have to paint him with dark aquamarine and black and white pigments rather than with the vibrant shades of this autumn afternoon. If the world was a book, Tom was like a white-and-black picture, frozen, unmoving, statuesque. But wasn't she taking this metaphor a little too far?

Tom abruptly coughed and shook her out of her stupor. Regarding him more closely, she decided that he didn't look well at all. Minerva put her quill down.

"Are you well, Tom?" she asked in concern, just as a coughing fit nearly bent him over. Seeing that he was unable to reply, she added: "You should go see Madam Yuhe about it."

"I don't have pneumonia, Minerva! I just have a stupid cold!" Tom snapped.

"Well anyway," Minerva pointed out drily, "wouldn't it be unfortunate if it said on your headstone _death of stupid cold_, too?"

Tom scoffed at her, but was unable to find a reply, much to her delight. Instead, he sneezed and sank down next to her in the golden sunshine of late autumn that tinted the tops of the Forbidden Forest a warm yellow and bathed the grounds in resplendent golden and red hues.

"So who are you writing to?"

"None of your business," Minerva said decisively and hugged the letter close to her chest.

"Accio Letter," Tom said lazily with a flick of his wand in her general direction. Minerva gasped at the letter flew out of her hand, taking a good chunk out of it in the process.

"Give it back, Tom," she yelled.

Tom grinned at her and flipped over on his back, holding the letter out over his face so he could read it.

"Dear Michael," he read, "How are you and your family? Did Abigail adjust well to her new duties in the shop? I send-"

He didn't come any further because Minerva furiously snatched the letter back.

"Like I said," she repeated heatedly, "None of your business."

"So who is that "dear Michael" anyway?" Tom asked, ignoring her statement.

"The older brother of a friend of mine living in a village close to my home," Minerva retorted, regretting having let him goad her into revealing this bit to him only seconds later.

"A villager?" Tom queried with all the polite and worldly disdain of an inhabitant of a metropolis.

Minerva glared at him: "Oh, save it, Tom."

Tom chuckled hoarsely. "Michael Mackenzie. What a sad chap, having to run around with such a name." In a horrible imitation of a Scottish accent, he started in high falsetto:

"My dear Minerva, I write to you from my position underneath a cow, as I simultaneously attempt to milk the cow and compose a letter to you…"

"Why Tom," Minerva said sweetly, having regained her wits, "you should have told me earlier that you wish to experience the joys of rural life."

Tom smirked unabashedly. "I assure you, Minerva, if I ever feel the need to milk a cow I'll let you know. There are far better things to do as a pastime in London, not that you would know about that."

Minerva wasn't about to be deterred though. "So that must mean you are jealous, aren't you, Tom?" she continued, coyly batting her eyelashes at him. "Tom Marvolo Riddle from the great City of London is jealous of Michael Mackenzie, whom aforementioned has mere minutes before proclaimed to be "a villager"."

"Of course I am not jealous," Tom retorted moodily and Minerva felt that she had hit a nerve. Another coughing fit shook Tom in the meantime and he made a few unpleasant sounds that had Minerva grimace at him. "I am going to follow your advice and go to the Hospital Wing," he announced.

With these words he got up and stormed away with a thunderous expression. Minerva looked after him in puzzlement. Men. Sometimes they made no sense.

She frowned, looking after his retreating form, remembering quite suddenly their conversation about Muggles and his disinterested denial of her accusation that he actually supported the idea of Muggle suppression a month prior. She shook her head. People said things they didn't mean all the time. And also Tom was certainly not like everyone, he was no exception to the rule either. It truly didn't have to mean anything that it had taken him a bit longer to reply to her statement than what was the norm. It didn't have to mean anything.

…

Did it?


	10. 1940 Part V

_Hi, **VanillaFields**_, _**Valentina**_, **_Mason and Alex _**_and_**_ sarafina!_** _Thank you very much for your reviews! :) I hope you like this chapter. I'll try to update as soon as I can but I can't promise anything because university has started again and the workload is very heavy this semester. But I'll do my best. This chapter is not what I'd call cheerful, but I hope it's alright. Please tell me your thoughts :)_

_Sachita  
_

* * *

**Chapter Nine**

**A train somewhere in Great Britain, December 29****th****, 1940**

It was a bad idea. _Asinine_, even.

There was a Muggle saying, something about recklessness and stupidity and there being a thin yet significant line between those two, but Minerva had never given too much on Muggle sayings. Maybe that was why she was currently hiding out in a smelly Muggle train toilet, wearing her warmest woollen skirt with her warmest red-chequered blouse and the warmest coat she owned. It was certainly cold enough outside to warrant these kinds of measures.

The cold didn't stay outside though. It crept past the badly-insulated hull of the carriage she was currently situated in and past her thick clothes, freezing her to the very core. Corresponding to her thoughts, Minerva shivered badly. She could not see the outside world, only hear it: the rattling of the train's wheels whenever they encountered a rail switch, the icy winds howling and tearing at the train's exterior…Minerva shivered some more and hid her reddened cheeks in her scarf.

It wasn't as if she had much choice as to where to hide. This toilet was at the back of the train, just in front of the compartments where the firearms and shells were being kept. Normally, it had been a passengers-only train but, or so Minerva had learned when she had come to the station, the passenger trains had been partly transformed into freight trains in order to get as much weapons, food and fuel to the military bases in the south of the country as possible as well as to the coast to bring supplies to the British troops. Since this particular toilet was so far at the back, no one ventured here.

Minerva snorted a little. Of course there were few passengers anyway. No one was very eager to travel to the Capital these days, not when there were notices of London being constantly bombed every second day. She did have a ticket, too, but she knew that she would nonetheless be considered a minor by the Muggles and be sent swiftly back home.

If that didn't happen, she was in danger of being sent to the countryside seeing that large groups of children were being evacuated from the cities to the countryside. After having gone to all this trouble, not using magic and not taking her broomstick so that it would take her parents longer to find out where she had gone, being sent back to the countryside by the Muggles was the last thing she wanted. No, Minerva actually wanted to go to London.

This of course, returned her to the reason as to why this idea was asinine.

Leaning back, Minerva reflected on the last months as the train carried her steadfastly to London.

October had passed in a rush and so had November. There had been no news of Professor Accuratore, but their new Professor for Charms, Professor Gracieuse, who hailed from Paris, France, had proven to be a great deal more competent than he.

And another unusual but welcome development was- she had found friends. Poppy Pomfrey, who had alerted Professor Dumbledore so that he knew where to find her when Accuratore had kidnapped them, was becoming a fast friend. Minerva had initially only gone to thank her for telling Dumbledore about her whereabouts – without saying anything about the entire matter, of course- and she had found the two years younger Poppy to be a witty and intelligent girl. She hoped it was a friendship she could keep.

Winter holidays had come soon enough and Minerva had been looking forward to returning home, although she had known that she would miss Poppy and of course, Tom, the ever elusive Tom. When she had promised to write him, he had just regarded her with an indecipherable look and had told her that if that was what she wished to do, he wouldn't be the one to hold her back. Minerva stifled a sigh as she thought about it.

Tom was the literal riddle at hand, one that she at times despaired at, but she had always liked to be intellectually challenged and there was truly no one she knew that could challenge her as Tom could.

That day, though, had been one of those when she had again despaired at him. He had, with barely so much as a word of goodbye, taken his heavy suitcase whose size dwarfed him and had determinedly disappeared through the barrier to walk to the orphanage. Minerva knew that he had to go to the place he only called "where I have to live" alone, and in that moment she had wished he could go to Scotland with her.

Well, maybe, she mused, it would have been better if he had gone to Scotland with her. If he had, she certainly wouldn't be sitting in a smelly cold Muggle train toilet travelling to London. It was an asinine idea; she couldn't have repeated it often enough, even if that was only to herself.

The idea had come to her a few nights before, but it had actually started to take shape in her head some days before that…

* * *

_Tom hadn't replied to her messages and so the only source that informed her of what was happening in London was the Daily Prophet. She was concerned, seeing that the Prophet's articles only seemed to become darker and more and more subdued. On this day the Daily prophet was lying on the scarlet and golden covers of her bed, courtesy of a tawny owl that sat right next to it, squawking indignantly._

"_How did you get-?" Minerva started, but stopped when she saw the opened window. "Oh. Right. I forgot to close it before." The owl extended its foot and Minerva put the proper amount of coins in the little leather bag dangling there. Another squawk and the owl was gone. Minerva closed the window and sat down on the bed. The headline made her start and gasp: "Constant bomb terror causes London's muggle and wizard community to declare a state of emergency". While she read the article that dealt with war, death and fire, Minerva bit her lip. Oh Merlin. Tom…_

_She looked at Caelus who was sitting in his usual corner in her room, having fled inside from the thunderstorm brewing outside. No. She could not risk sending Caelus to the City of London again- she loved the owl too much for that. She could not do anything._

_That night, she didn't sleep much- she kept dreaming of burning buildings, screaming people and a pale face that stared at her from behind the window of a burning house. Tom. The thunder and rain had her wake up every hour and each time she did, she woke up bathed in cold sweat, for she imagined the thunderclaps to be bombs, dropped as she lay there unawares and sleeping. _

_The next day, she went through her daily routine automatically, even went to visit Abigail in the village but her heart was not in her actions. She ended up sitting on the window sill staring outside in the early evening and stayed there till late in the night._

_On the fourth evening after she had received the Prophet and with Christmas having passed without a word of Tom, Minerva found that she couldn't do this anymore. She found herself some practical clothes- a warm skirt and a warm blouse- and snuck out of the house._

* * *

So there she was, in a train bound for a city in a state of emergency, sitting huddled in on herself on the floor of a Muggle toilet. The journey was starting to exhaust her; it had been eight hours already and they had still not arrived, but then it was a long way and the train could only go slowly. Minerva didn't dare to close her eyes though; her fear of being discovered was too acute.

Of course the idea was asinine. But she needed to see him. The reasons as to why she needed to see him were none that she liked to admit to herself, but the truth was…she needed him. She needed him more than she could have said.

"What are you doing there, girl?"

The loud booming voice wrenched her out of the light sleep she had fallen into and startled her so badly that she had to steady herself on the floor. Only then did she look up.

A man, wearing a long dark coat and a small-brimmed hat, who looked to be in his late forties stared back at her. He seemed to be some kind of official and a higher-ranked one at that, judging from his demeanour. Golden-framed glasses were perched on his nose over which he regarded Minerva in half-surprise, half-irritation.

"Are we in London?" she asked and picked herself up.

"Yes, girl," he replied tersely, "we are in London, at King's Cross Station, which of course makes me ask you again: what are you doing here?"

"I have a ticket," Minerva announced quickly and held it out to him. Inside, she was quivering.

The man looked at the ticket closely and when his eyes fell again on her, the look on his exhausted face was slightly friendlier. "What do you want here in such dark weeks, Miss?"

"My sister," Minerva started in a hurry, taking care to perfect her acting in face of his penetrating stare. "My sister is still in London with my Uncle, because she couldn't come with me when I was sent to live with my parents in Scotland. In the countryside. Normally we attend school here, you see…and I know that I shouldn't be travelling alone, sir, but my father is in the Royal Navy and not at home and my mother is unable to come herself, because she is sick…and my little sister is still so young. We were afraid that she might get lost…and I was afraid that I might get sent back if I sat among the other passengers."

What an immense lie she'd just told and she was not proud of herself for it, but she knew she had to do it.

"I am sure someone would have been found who would have travelled with the girl…" the official started and some of the annoyance from before was back. "Well," he added, "anyway. I suppose it would be best if I accompanied you to your uncle myself. The city is not a good place to be at the moment. It can start at any moment again."

"How long has it been going on?"

The man glanced at her and now all of his exhaustion was clearly visible on his face, making him look as if he were a good ten years older. "Since September, but it feels like forever. It's hell."

Minerva nodded and when he looked down in deep thought, she shoved him quickly aside and started to run.

"Hey!" she heard behind her. "Get back here immediately! It's dangerous! Stop!"

But she didn't stop, she just kept on running until she couldn't hear the screams behind her anymore. Only then, when she stopped next to elegant and great white-bricked houses, so different from what she was used to, she realised that she had no idea where to go.

* * *

But she knew the name of Tom's orphanage and she asked a kindly-looking old man for directions. He gave them readily enough, but there was concern in his eyes. "Be careful, my dear, will you? Those old bones feel that there is going to be trouble today."

"Don't worry, sir," Minerva replied and gave him a sweet and genuine smile. "I will be careful."

Nodding, the old man saw her off and she was quick to go, seeing that it was starting to get dark. She hadn't reached the orphanage yet, when it started. First, there was an explosion in the distance and people next to her seemed frozen. Then, they all started yelling at once.

"We need to get off the street," someone yelled and grabbed her sleeve. Minerva shook him off and ran.

She had no idea if the direction she was going in was the right one, but it didn't seem to matter anymore. Sheer panic overwhelmed her as the explosions came closer and she kept running, whereto, she couldn't have said. Sirens were wailing at a horrible pitch.

She only knew that she couldn't stop because the city was burning.

London was burning.

Bright flares floated strangely silent compared to the overwhelming cacophony high up in the air.

Constant explosions allowed glimpses of the dark silhouettes of German planes in the cold December night. The air smelled of sulphur and fire. An explosion just down the street she was running on made her stop and throw her arms over her head. Minerva was frozen to the spot in mindless panic as she suddenly realised just how asinine her idea had been. This was real. This was war. And there was no one to protect her here.

Someone impacted with her and shook her out of her stupor.

Turning around quickly, she saw a man. His hands were bloody and mangled, his hair was singed and his face that was twisted to a scream was smeared with soot. Tears had left light tracks on his cheeks. The explosions that continued in the distance lit his face in an eerie light. Minerva could see the whites of his eyes.

"It's-it's-"he laughed hysterically, crazily, "it's all gone! Burning! My house, our beautiful London! Our London's burning! Burning!"

"Sir, sir," Minerva screamed at him. "Sir!"

But he didn't appear to have heard her and Minerva was left to stare at his back as he stumbled away and disappeared in the darkness and the smoke. Gasping for breath, she turned to run in the other direction.

Stopping sometime later in a non-descript street, she jerked violently as a mortar hit a house some way down the street, closer this time. The noise was deafening. Without thinking of what she was doing she whipped her wand out, screaming "Protego" at the top of her lungs. When she dared to look again, her ears were ringing and white dust was hanging in the air. As it slowly settled she could see in the strange half-light caused by heaps of burning rubble that half of the house's front was gone. Nearby, someone was sobbing.

Shuddering, Minerva pointed her wand to her feet and whispered "Vitesso". The world sped by in a blur. The countless screams of people around her were transformed into a single cry. Burning houses became whirlwinds of colour and sound, nearly beautiful in a horrifying and grotesque way. Momentary impressions flashed past her, the wide eyes of a young girl standing frozen to the spot staring at a burning house, a badly burnt man screaming and screaming- Minerva sped up. She felt nauseous. Her eyes burnt and spilt over, but her sobs were drowned by the enormous roar surrounding her.

Tom's orphanage was not located in the heart of the city, rather some way outside, but the explosions were still clearly audible. The smell of fire and sulphur was almost as strong and Minerva coughed and choked, supporting her weight on a pillar. Still shaking badly, tears leaving light tracks on her dirty cheeks, she stopped in front of the large iron gate, at a loss again for the second time that day. The orphanage's windows were dark and silent, contrasting the fiery noise everywhere around it.

* * *

The decision of what to do was however made for her as a dark shadow slipped out of a side door, opened the gate and hurried over to her.

"Minerva!" Tom- and yes it was indeed Tom's voice was incredulous. "What the bloody hell are you doing here?"

His demeanour was calm, too calm for the situation, but a look at his face showed that he looked harried- he was pale, his hair was mussed and dark bruises circled his eyes.

"I came," she stuttered, hearing how her voice came out shrill and hysterical-sounding, "I came-because-you- I was afraid-"

Tom impatiently shook his head at her. "No time for that now. I am just about to go to a shelter."

"You?" she stammered," What about the other…?"

Again, he shook his head. "Evacuated. We have no time for this. Come on."

Minerva, nearly struck dumb by all that was happening around her stifled a desperate sob and allowed him to drag her along.

Minerva turned in his grip at a sudden sound, stumbled-

-and then the world exploded.

She had no time to react, but a voice shouted close to her ear: "Protego!"

The house opposite of them exploded and the world was set afire. Burning wreckage and debris was everywhere. For a moment the world seemed to stand still and then it picked up momentum and fell apart around them.

Minerva heard screams over the constant ringing in her ears. She wanted to run in their direction, but Tom grabbed her arm and yanked her away, pulling her roughly through deserted back alleys.

"Tom!" she gasped breathlessly, forcing him to stop. "We need to help these people!"

"You can't help them," Tom stated. It had not necessarily been said in a cruel tone of voice, but rather in a very matter-of-fact kind of way.

"No!" she yelled at him. "Let me go!"

She fought him, but in spite of his slight frame he overpowered her easily.

"Tom!" Minerva finally gave up, sagging against him. She tasted tears on her tongue. Warm hands supported her head; thumbs traced the light path that the tears had created on her soot-stained cheeks. If she had looked up, she would have seen that his self-assured front was cracking and his hands shook as he carefully traced the outline of her face.

Then he very lightly and very carefully pressed a kiss on her forehead, whispering:

"You can't help them, Minerva. Please come with me."

Minerva would have reflected on the kiss on her forehead and maybe on what it meant, had the circumstances only been different, but they were not and as such she allowed him to take her hand and run. The wailing of sirens was getting louder.

* * *

They ran for a few minutes that might as well have been a few hours seeing that Minerva's concept of time seemed to have disappeared completely; until they came to an entrance into what seemed to be a communal underground shelter. A thin man in a coat stood at the entrance.

"48, 49," he announced. "That's it, in with you two. We are closing the shelter."

Minerva and Tom half-fell down a dim staircase, hurried along by the man from the entrance until they found themselves among many people of whom most stared ahead apathetically, but someone who looked to be an elderly woman in the flickering light of a few light bulbs dangling from the ceiling, made way for them. Thanking her, Minerva and Tom sank down on the ground close to the staircase from where they had come in.

They stayed there, huddled against each other. Just the breaths in the heat, brushing against her over-sensitive skin reminded her that there were others in there, wasting valuable oxygen. And the touches -arms on her back, a head on her feet- buried alive together with people she had never spoken to nor seen their face. They were cooped up like cattle.

There was silence outside- for now, yet no-one spoke.

They all could easily imagine planes silently gliding through the clouds that hid them from view, advancing on the city that lay stretched out under them like them kind of wounded giant.

A feeling of tense terror was lying in the air and a child began to wail somewhere nearby. The mother helplessly shushed her, but the crying would not stop- it just got louder in volume.

Then the sirens started again and the wailing began to fade in the background. Their noise was terrible- it seemed to tear the very air apart, shredding its substance and leaving anyone alive just with the sound of the sirens, the sound of terror, of agony, of death.

Someone close to Minerva began to recite a prayer. "In Thee Oh Lord, I trust..."

The voice carried on whispering until it was hoarse from use and its owner fell silent. The oppressive silence inside the air shelter returned- a strange contrast to the cacophony outside. They stayed like that for long moments- concentrating on breathing- in and out and in and out...Feelings of terror and the smell of too many people packed too tightly together permeated the air, made it difficult to do so. Every breath tasted of stale air and of too little oxygen.

"It will take a few hours more until they stop," Tom said calmly next to Minerva. She turned to look at him for the first time in hours. "This is not your first time in here," she stated in a hoarse voice.

"No," Tom replied quietly. "London has been under attack since September and ever since I've returned from school it's been no different. They don't come constantly, but they come in calculated periods of time. Whenever we've settled down again, feeling remotely safe, they head back for another run at the city."

"That sounds horrible," Minerva whispered. Her eyes burned.

Tom did something very uncharacteristic. He came closer and put his arms around her shaking shoulders. "Don't worry, Minerva. I won't let anything happen to you."

He didn't say it in an arrogant or overly-confident manner, rather in a way that was so much like him that Minerva had to remedy her earlier opinion about him putting an arm around her being uncharacteristic. No, instead he uttered the words in a calm, matter-of-fact manner, showing that he really believed in what he said to her. Somewhat reassured beyond the frazzled anxiety of this moment, she allowed him to hold her close.

Time passed, minutes, hours, days- Minerva didn't know. She was staring fixedly at a spot between her feet, counting her breaths. She got confused a lot and had to start again but everything was better than concentrating on the sounds of the explosions going on outside. Maybe she even fell asleep for a short period of time, if she did, the situation hadn't changed in the very least when she woke up again: there was still the oppressive silence, the dim light and the explosions. She was so tired.

"It's longer tonight," Tom whispered hoarsely. He too, sounded exhausted.

When the call finally came that they could go outside, Tom had to drag Minerva to her feet because she was still staring fixedly at the ground, muttering something about breath 3650. Tom shook her rather roughly and she directed a frozen look, disturbing in its apathy, at him.

"Is it over?"

"Yes," Tom replied quietly, "for now."

They stumbled to the orphanage past burning ruins and fires that had started to die down. White smoke hung in the air of early dawn, ghost-like and disturbing. It had become quieter.

It was then, holding onto Tom's hand and stumbling across the ruins of a stately house that she finally allowed herself to cry. Tom didn't say anything, but his grip on her hand tightened.

* * *

Her tears had dried when they reached the orphanage, but the dark terror of this night remained inside of her and she was suddenly sure that it would never entirely leave her. Up a shabby staircase they went and along a cheerless corridor, until they reached a small room.

"My room," Tom said simply.

"Don't you have to share with someone?" she inquired simply.  
"Not anymore," was all he said.

She took a cursory and tired look around; there was a narrow bed, a cupboard and a single chair with a small table in the room. It all seemed very Spartan.

Minerva stumbled across something when she entered the half-dark room, and Tom, arriving behind her, unhurriedly picked the books she had fallen over up.

"What are you reading?" Minerva asked, more or less as a question to fill the silence.

"Macbeth, at the moment," replied Tom.

"By Shakespeare?" She tried hard, and failed to keep the surprise out of her voice.

"Yes. I also like listening to Chopin." There was a trace of amusement in his voice now, as if he knew something that she didn't. "Sit down," he added with a great flourish.

Minerva sank down on the bed but refused to further his amusement.

"You read Shakespeare and you like listening to Chopin?"

"Yes." Tom looked placid.

For some reason, Minerva felt a hysterical giggle bubble over her lips. Tom, who had told her that Muggles had never been good to him. Tom, who she suspected might even hate Muggles.

Here she was, in a dark orphanage room with the boy who hated Muggles but liked Shakespeare and Chopin, sitting on a rickety bed and listening to the sounds of faint cries in the distance while the great City of London still burned around them. Who wouldn't laugh at such contradictions? The thought made her laugh and simultaneously choke on her laughter, because there were hot tears building up in her eyes.

A cold touch on her arm startled her badly.

"You are exhausted, Minerva," Tom said simply. Minerva could only stare at him as he manoeuvred her into a lying position on the narrow bed. She only reacted when she felt his fingers comb through her hair. "What are you doing?"

"Wearing your hair in such a tight braid must be stifling," Tom merely explained, resuming his business of removing ribbons from her hair. His boldness and even as some would call it, audacity, had Minerva fall silent- There was something nice about it, she admitted only to herself, in the way his fingers detangled her tight braid and combed through her long dark hair. When he was finished, Tom sat back and regarded the mass of black locks that was spread out on the pillow, surrounding Minerva's head like a halo. "There," he said, something akin to awe in his voice, "you are beautiful."

Minerva turned her head to look at him. The light of early dawn only allowed her to make out the vague outlines of his face, but she was aware that he was intently returning her look. There was something between them in the air, something indefinable, yet something almost tangible and Minerva found it suddenly hard to breathe.

After a long moment, he looked away and then got up almost hastily; seeming to search for something judging by the way he was rummaging through his cupboard standing at the back of the room. Mere seconds later, he returned, clutching a small pillow. Without further ado, he then proceeded to lie down next to the bed on the floor, stuffing the pillow underneath his head.

"Tom," Minerva broke the silence finally, having regained some of her calm, "what are you doing?" She could not quite keep a faint trace of weary amusement out of her voice.

"I'm letting you have the bed," he replied stiffly.

A small, disbelieving laugh escaped her that might have been more heartfelt had her mood not been so subdued. "Don't tell me," she stated once her amusement had died down, "you give half a pence's worth on propriety."

Tom's reply was tinged with irritation. "Of course I do, Minerva."

Minerva snorted. "Oh please, Tom Riddle, you can fool the teachers but you can't fool me."

"Wouldn't be too sure of that."

Minerva attempted to decipher if there were any hidden meaning in this sentence beyond the obvious, but she eventually decided not to dwell too long on it.

Her patience wearing thin, she eventually said tartly: "Oh come on, Tom, come up here."  
For a while nothing happened in the tense silence and Minerva was left to stare at the peculiar blue shapes the light of early dawn that fell through the holes in the threadbare curtain painted on the ceiling. Then the bed groaned suddenly as a new weight was added to hers.

Minerva looked to the right and saw Tom who had slid in next to her, his eyes stubbornly closed. "Don't give too much on your victory," he mumbled.

"Why of course not," Minerva replied seriously, though there was a weak smile dancing on her lips that she was glad he could not see in the dimness.

* * *

It was awkward, lying there tangled up like that and so close to each other and it was also uncomfortable because the bed had simply not been made for two persons. But after some shifting around and some mumbled swears when one of them accidentally hit the other with an elbow, the two of them settled down peacefully enough. Minerva couldn't relax fully though. Having him so close to her was unnerving. Also, something kept nagging at her.

After a while of silent contemplation whether she should say what was on her mind or not, she started tentatively: "Tom?"

He reacted only after she had nudged him in the side. "What, Minerva?" he mumbled sleepily.

"They will be coming to fetch me today, if only because they fear I might disgrace them." She paused and she knew that she did not have to clarify for Tom who they were. Tom had remained silent, but the pattern of his breathing had changed, clearly telling Minerva that he was in fact paying attention to her every word.

"I want you to come with me," she then added slowly. "To Scotland. You would be safe there, well, safer than here at any rate."

Tom's reply was quiet and strangely subdued, which struck her as odd since it was normally not as easy to read his emotions. "I'll think about it, Minerva."  
Then, after another pause, he added: "At least you are from a Pureblood family."

Normally Minerva would react sharply to such a statement by anyone because in her eyes it implied arrogance and selective thinking which she abhorred, but there was a sense of abject loneliness in Tom's voice that had her reply in a gentle manner.

"You know, that doesn't mean anything, Tom."

"Then you are the only one who thinks so," Tom mused and his breath tickled her ear.

"I am not," she protested, trying to shake off the shivers that crawled down her spine as she became aware of just how close he was lying to her. "Rose Wilkins of Ravenclaw is a Pureblood and it doesn't matter to her. Sinead O'Brian is from an old Irish Pureblood family and she has a boyfriend whose parents are Non-Magical…"

"Minerva," interrupted Tom, "don't you realise something? For example, what is Miss O'Brian's house?"

"Hufflepuff, but-" she broke off as realisation hit her.

"Exactly." Tom sounded darkly amused.

"The Slytherins-"

"Their parents had them learn the family trees by heart, just like you obviously had to, Minerva, or else you wouldn't have understood as quickly as you have. Despite that, I had them fooled for about a year until they realised that Riddle is not exactly a typical wizard family's surname."

"What did you do?" Minerva asked after a pause, feeling more sympathy for Tom than he probably wanted. She knew he could defend himself quite well, too well, maybe.

"It's odd how, despite common belief, intellect always wins in the end," Tom replied blandly.

He turned away from her. "Sleep now," he added nearly roughly.

But Minerva couldn't sleep, because a question nagged at her and demanded to be posed.

"Tom," she whispered. Outside, the din had died down somewhat, but Minerva knew that this was not the end. If what Tom had told her was anything to go by, they would come again. The thought caused a slight whimper of terror to escape her lips.

"Tom," she repeated.

"Yes?" he finally asked, sounding decidedly annoyed this time, but she wasn't about to be deterred.

"What about your family? What happened to them?"

Tom abruptly tensed next to her. "Sleep," he said tersely and Minerva knew that they would speak no further on the matter.

* * *

**Wool's Orphanage, London, 30****th**** December 1940**

"What were you thinking, Minerva?"

It was Andrew's angry voice who demanded that, while she was standing in front of him, head bowed. Tom at her side just looked exhausted, but other than that he was wearing his calm mask.

"I don't know," she finally replied contritely.

Her brother sighed and his anger seemed to dissipate. He looked completely unravelled. His eyes were suspiciously bright as he regarded her.

"I was so worried, Min." Gathering his sister in a spontaneous hug, he whispered: "I am only glad that you are alright."

As he let her go, he looked over to Tom, who stood there as pale and unmoving as a statue.

"My name is Andrew McGonagall. You must be Tom Riddle."

Tom, who had been silent ever since Andrew had appeared at the orphanage a good ten minutes ago, finally opened his mouth. "Yes, I am Tom Riddle. Pleased to meet you, sir."

Andrew's eyes had softened a bit as he regarded the sad state his sister and her friend were in; clothes and faces smeared with soot and in his sister's case also with tears.

"Why haven't you been evacuated to the countryside as well? The orphanage seems to be deserted."

Tom finally moved from his frozen stance. "I arrived too late from Hogwarts and the first operation sponsored by the government was already over. They are waiting to gather enough children for the next one at the moment. Miss Cole, who is the matron of the orphanage, thinks she might be able to arrange something for some children who are still here with some families from the countryside."

_But not for Tom, _Minerva noted, as she registered that he hadn't used "us" when talking about the children who were still in the orphanage. _Or at least he won't be among the first because they think he is a freak. _Something inside her was furious at the way Tom was being treated here. Whether her brother had realised that Tom hadn't included himself in the statement or not, his voice was considerably calmer when he spoke again.

"Well, Tom, we might be able to arrange something else for you. You could come to Scotland with us."

"I was just about to ask you, Drew," Minerva cried, jumping to her brother and throwing her arms around his neck. She was so glad to see him. After this horrible night and the madness he seemed to provide a measure of normalcy.

When she looked back at Tom, she was surprised to see that he was standing there, looking a little lost and even paler than before. His fists were clenched at his side.

"Well, what do you say, Tom?" Andrew asked eventually.

Tom's words came very precise and he sounded polite and very stiff. "I thank you for your offer, sir, but I do not know whether the matron would approve of such a suggestion. She does not care much for magic. That might have to be taken under consideration."

"I'll talk to her and I'll see to it that she agrees and that I won't mention the word magic when talking to her," Andrew said. When the boy still looked reluctant, he went on. "There isn't anything you can do here, Tom, neither for your studies nor for anyone. Scotland is safe at the moment. There are neither bombs nor anything else of the kind. We would only like to help you."

Tom loosened up a little at Andrew's words, but Minerva knew him and she knew that the stiffness was still very present. "Thank you," he simply replied after a pause. "I'd like to take you up on your suggestion, if I may."

"Very well then," Andrew merely said. Another heavy sigh escaped him and an abrupt wave of guilt hit Minerva. Her brother regarded her for a long moment and then nodded once. "Let's go," he said and the exhaustion in his voice reflected that of Minerva's and Tom's expressions. Outside, the new day started and the cold air of morning intermingled with the white smoke of burnt out fires.

* * *

**McGonagall Manor, Scotland, 30****th**** December 1940**

"This is where you live then?" Tom was taking in the house with avid eyes. A few hours had passed since they had arrived and Minerva's parents had refused to talk to her, only greeting Tom in a very cold manner, while Andrew had told her tacitly that she was forbidden to go outside. But it didn't matter much to her and in her mind they couldn't have thought of a punishment that hurt less, because while she liked to watch the fluffy white snowflakes falling outside she had little desire to actually go outside.

It had got to be very cold and the winds howled around the house, whirling up cascades of snow. Shaking herself out of her thoughts, she saw that Tom was still gazing around with keen eyes.

She wondered what he thought about the sumptuous interior of the McGonagall manor- the high stone structures, the red and golden carpets, the fireplaces, the elegant spiral staircase leading to the first storey and the high windows that allowed a look at the outside world, currently covered in masses of snow.

"It's nice," Tom eventually said and Minerva nearly laughed at his dry statement. "Thanks," she said.

"Let me show you to your room."

When she turned to go to the staircase, she accidentally brushed her hand against Tom's. "Sorry," she said and quickly withdrew the hand. How odd-even though his hand was cold as usual (hypotonia, he'd once told her), she felt as if she had burned herself.

In the afternoon she felt that she needed to see Michael and Abigail. Andrew, when she told him what she was planning to do, agreed with a sigh and a muttered "I don't know how it is that you can manipulate me so", to cover for her with their parents. After the horrible reality of the burning London she needed a measure of normalcy and for some reason she needed to see for herself that her friends were alive and well, that nothing had changed here in her little sanctuary in the Scottish Highlands.

Tom, when he heard of her plan, asked if he could accompany her.

Minerva glanced at the pile of books that he had piled up on a desk in their big library. Tom had immediately felt quite at home in the library, _well, of course he had, _she thought with a quiet smile.

"Aren't you busy?" she asked, hoping that he'd reconsider, remembering the thinly veiled disdain in his voice in Autumn when he had learned who Michael was.

"No, I'd like to meet your friends," Tom said with a smile that she could tell was insincere. But there was resolve in his voice and attempting to get Tom to change his mind was like trying to move a house by brute force.

"Come along then," Minerva sighed.

* * *

Michael and Abigail had obviously been sitting at a table in the small grocer's shop because Michael was still sitting there when Abigail opened the door for them. Minerva's friend took in their wind-tousled appearance, their heavy coats and their reddened cheeks and exclaimed:

"Good heavens, do come in! It's awfully cold out today."

"Abigail," Minerva greeted and embraced her friend happily. Michael had got up from his place in the corner as well. He was wearing a flat cap and a dark vest with a white shirt, which accentuated his brown eyes and hair. Minerva felt all giddy when he smiled at her, but she didn't catch Tom's angry glare.

"Who is your friend, Min?" Abigail asked cheerfully.

Tom stepped forward, extending his hand. "Tom Riddle, pleased to meet you," he muttered.

Abigail shook his hand with a curious look and Michael did the same. Tom chose to glare at him, which in turn, caused Michael to look a bit put out.

The tension between the two was instantly noticeable and Abigail must have noticed it too, because she sounded uncomfortable when she asked:

"Are you from London?"

"I am," Tom affirmed simply.

Abigail bit her lip, bemused with his short replies, while Minerva glanced between them, feeling worse with each passing minute.

"Were you there when it was attacked?"

"Michael!" Abigail admonished her brother, gasping a little.

Tom smirked coldly. "I was," he said flatly. "You should be rather grateful that you don't know what that means."

"We are," Abigail assured him because now it was Michael who was glaring.

"Please, sit down." For a moment, she wrung her hands and hers and Minerva's eyes met, Minerva conveying a silent apology while Abigail nodded.

"Would you like something to drink?"

"That would be nice," Tom answered politely. "Thank you."

Half an hour, that had been spent making forced conversation at the small table in the corner later, they somehow ended up on the topic of human rights and equality as well as equal chances for everyone.

"I think it's not just, "Michael said rather heatedly. "People should be treated the same, no matter who they are and no matter where they come from."

"Have you heard of Marx's and Engels' theories then and would you say that you are a supporter of them?" Tom's question was innocently-posed, but Minerva knew that Tom Riddle definitely didn't do innocent.

From the look on Michael's face Minerva knew that he hadn't heard of either Marx or Engels. Tom eyed the former cunningly.

"Would you approve of a state ruled – in theory- by the working class? The praxis is an entirely different matter anyway, as I am sure you know. Look at Russia. Do you feel a planned economy is better and more economic than a liberal one, governed only by the functions of demand and supply?"

It had been a serious question, but Minerva _knew_ Tom. And she _knew_ that he was only talking that way not because he considered Michael to be an interlocutor worth of his time, but because he wanted to make Michael look like a fool. As if it was his fault that his education hadn't been as thorough as Tom's! Minerva felt her anger rapidly mounting and she wanted to speak up, when Michael spoke up for himself.

He drew himself up to his full height- being three years older he had about two heads on Tom, excluding easy grace.

"All I was saying," Michael replied quietly yet forcefully, "is that there should be equal opportunities for everyone, no matter what their social status is."

Tom snorted harshly. His English accent made his words sound very accurate compared to Michael's rolling brogue.

"That sounds like a very noble notion. However, did you ever consider that the people in power are never going to listen to dreamers like you are? Did it ever occur to you that they might be quite reluctant to give their power away?"

Michael's fists were clenching and unclenching at his sides. Minerva knew that he had understood that Tom's purpose of talking had not been because the former had been looking for a serious conversation, but because he had wanted to humiliate him.

"Sorry that you have so few values that you feel no cause is worth standing up for," he ground out between clenched teeth. Minerva looked between the two- Michael who was rapidly reddening and Tom, whom the white weather made only look paler, standing there as silent and still as a marble statue.

"We are gonna go now. Good seeing you," she announced rather hastily, taking Tom's elbow and dragging him to the door. Neither Abigail nor Michael reacted and Minerva quickly shut the door. She felt tears brimming in her eyes.

Not looking at Tom nor saying another word to him, she stormed away.

"Minerva!"

She turned around and was horrified to feel that her eyes were still burning. Blinking rapidly, she forced herself to face Abigail with a neutral face. "Yes?"

Tom had stopped a few metres away and was looking at them with narrowed eyes, but Minerva refused to acknowledge him.

"I am sorry," she sighed heavily.

Abigail rested a hand on her arm. "Don't be. You are a good friend, Minerva, and I would not quarry with you about such mere trifles. Michael will calm down too. Just do me a favour-"

When Minerva nodded, Abigail looked over to Tom. "Don't bring your friend next time."

* * *

**Library, McGonagall Manor, Scotland, 31****st**** December 1940**

"Decided to talk to me again, have you?"

Tom was sitting behind his pile of books, wavy dark hair combed into a neatly-parted mass of locks. His dark blue eyes surveyed her as she stood in the doorframe, hands clasped behind her back. Instead of replying, Minerva heaved a huge sigh.

"Come on, Tom;" she said as a reply. Ever since they had returned from the Michael fiasco as she liked to dub it, Minerva had taken to avoid Tom the rest of the day before and had not spoken to him except for a quick goodnight.

"Well, it's nearly New Year's Eve, so…." She trailed off. A smirk appeared on Tom's face.

"You can come off your high horse now, Minerva," was all that he said.

Minerva, startled, stared at him. "What?"

"Your friend Michael. You kept trying to jump to his defence. As if you doubted his ability to hold his own in a battle of wills against me. As if you were the one who is older- even though he is two years older, was it? than you. So please spare me the lectures about me being arrogant and condescending towards him and think about your own behaviour."

Minerva opened her mouth to protest, but then, with dread gathering in her stomach she did recall the way she had behaved on the afternoon the day before- and it occurred to her.

He was right.

It was a nasty sensation, discovering that she was not as unbiased as she had thought herself to be. How would she ever be able to look Michael in the face again?

When Minerva averted her eyes, Tom merely nodded. "I do not want to humiliate you, Minerva," he said suddenly in a gentler manner. "I merely want you to recognise your own, let's say, shortcomings."

"It's not Michael's fault that he has not received the same high standard of education as you have, Tom," Minerva protested.

Tom arched an elegant black eyebrow. "Maybe not, but people without ambition to make more of themselves are not the ones whom I wish to be among my acquaintances."

Minerva shot him a quick look. "Say, you are unable to attain the same level of education because you do not have the means to do so? Say you are poor?" She waited a beat, then added: "What would you have done, Tom, if Hogwarts didn't exist?"

Tom wasn't about to be deterred and if he was surprised by her words, he didn't show it. "I would have never given up," was all he said.

Minerva recognised the matter as a lost cause and eventually gave up.

* * *

While they had been talking, they had walked along a high corridor with parquet flooring and a high ceiling that was lit by golden lamps set in alcoves in the stone walls. Eventually they entered a room with a long wooden table. Normally, Minerva despised this room- "Luncheon Chamber" as mother liked to call it- for it was the room they always had their most formal dinners in, but today was a different story.

There was a pile of food on the festively decorated table- silver and green ribbons because this was for Tom after all. Next to the pile of food was Fletcher who was grinning happily at his Miss Minerva and her friend.

"Fletcher," Minerva smiled. "Thank you for arranging it all in such a wonderful manner."

Fletcher bowed and with a pleased smile he said softly: "It was my honour, Miss Minerva." When he disappeared with a loud crack, Minerva looked at Tom and was surprised to see a very odd look on his face; nearly hesitant and very bemused. Tom was very seldom bemused and Minerva could count the times on one hand she had ever seen him show such a vulnerable emotion as hesitation.

Deciding that she'd have to plough on nevertheless, she walked over to him and gave him a heartfelt hug, while he stood there as stiff as a board. "Happy Birthday, Tom." She meant her words.

"This-" he finally said and another odd look hushed over his face before he started again, "this is for me?"

"Yes," Minerva laughed. "It's your birthday, isn't it?"

Tom walked very hesitantly over to the pile of food- there was roast turkey, gravy and mashed potatoes as well as a delicious-looking chocolate cake. He very carefully brushed his hand over the green and silver ribbons on the table, mumbling so quietly that Minerva wasn't sure whether she'd heard him right or not: "Nobody has ever done so much for my birthday before." A silent _for me_ was implied in the sentence. "I haven't seen so much food in a long time," he added bemusedly.

Swallowing the sudden knot in her throat because of his childlike sense of wonder, Minerva finally managed: "Your birthday is important, Tom. One only gets to be fourteen once."

"I suppose you are right," he mumbled deep in thought. He approached the package that was also lying on the table, wrapped in silver and green paper. "May I open it?"

"Yes," Minerva replied, "by all means, open it."

And when Tom opened the package and saw the rare edition of "Silver-tongued charms and spells" his lips curved upwards and he revealed rows of white teeth. A small delighted sound escaped him. For one moment, Tom Riddle looked utterly, absolutely happy. In that moment, Minerva wondered whether he might look like that more often if only he had had people who valued him enough to gift him on his birthday every year of his life.

* * *

The New Year approached with rapid steps and Minerva and Tom awaited it sitting at one of the high windows in Minerva's room, gazing out into the darkness. Fletcher had brought them each a glass of orange juice and so there they were sitting, watching the stars. Later, they'd have to go down and wish Minerva's parents a good new year, but not now. Now there were just the stars, glittering so beautifully in the cold clear night, and the light of the moon, and Minerva and Tom sitting on the window sill. In that moment Minerva was happy.

"Do you want to practice with me the charms from the book tomorrow?" Tom interrupted the peaceful silence.

Minerva looked over to him and saw that the sense of amazement from the forenoon had still not completely faded. A smile broke out on her face at the sight of his genuine happiness. "Sure," she replied.

Tom smiled at her then and there was something so odd about his look, that made Minerva suddenly very conscious of how she looked. Of course she was wearing her nicest dress tonight, but she felt suddenly that her hair was in disarray and her face was red-

Tom leaned closer in the moonlit quiet and she forgot to breathe.

Then, he approached until they were only centimetres left between them and pressed his lips very very softly to hers.

It was as wet as the first kiss Minerva had got from a boy, but it was so different. Butterflies danced in the pits of her stomach and she wondered giddily that if she weren't holding on to the window sill with her other hand might she just float out of the window and farther out and up, even up to the stars that were so far away in the night sky?

Tom eventually leaned back and Minerva felt that the temperature in the room was suddenly elevated to ten degrees Celsius more. She touched her lips and took a deep breath. Tom was also breathing quite harshly.

After a long while wherein she gathered herself, she finally uttered:

"Well, that was-"

"A kiss," Tom supplied helpfully.

Minerva, who had been staring dazedly at him for the last minute or so regained her wits.

"How astute of you, Tom."

"Well, I always try to help." The smirk on his face was infuriatingly smug.

"William Yaxley's kiss was better though." Minerva kept a straight face.

Tom actually bought it for a second and she laughed inwardly at the dismayed expression that flitted momentarily over his face. But Tom wouldn't have been Tom had he not caught up an instant later.

"Ah," he smiled. "How very kind of you, Minerva, but I know for a fact that my kisses are much better."

"Why?", she asked, feigning exaggerated interest.

"Because I am Tom Riddle," was all that he said, leaning back on the windowsill and looking at her placidly, that smug smirk still on his face.

"Not full of yourself at all, are you Tom?"

He examined his fingernails in mock boredom and said imperturbably:

"Conceit, more rich in matter than in words, brags of his substance: they are but beggars who can count their worth."

Amazed she asked: "Was that Shakespeare?"

Tom raised a nonchalant eyebrow: "I told you I read his works, didn't I? This particular quote is from Romeo and Juliet."

"Oh but I'd make a horrible Juliet," Minerva inserted, hard-pressed to stifle her smile.

He smiled in wry amusement. "I concur. We are both not cut out to be Romeo and Juliet. I know for a fact I wouldn't climb a bloody balcony. I'd ask you where you keep the ladder." Minerva laughed at his scowl.

"Plus," Tom went on, "what a poor fool he is, killing himself to be with her when he doesn't even know if they can be together in the next world? Or if there is even one. Death is a certainty, they say," he mused, "But shouldn't the _when _be of our choosing?"

Looking up he caught her startled frown and added a smooth: "Not of William Shakespeare's choosing at any rate, so yes, I refuse to be Romeo."

Minerva's frown had made way for renewed merriment. "You'd be an awful Romeo, too, Tom," she snorted. "I can imagine it- everyone's waiting for the end and you stand there saying _Well, everyone, it's been lovely but I just don't feel like killing myself tonight._"

A small laugh escaped Tom's lips as well. His midnight eyes danced with glee.

"Like the unending story, I'd always end up at that point, I guess. No, no Romeo for you, Minerva, I am sorry."

"Well," Minerva told him boldly with a twinkle in her eyes, "I prefer Tom anyway."

That seemed to sober him for a moment and he looked at her in a suddenly quite serious manner.

Thankfully the clock struck twelve just then, saving them from possible awkwardness.

"Happy New Year, Tom," Minerva said sincerely and she meant it.

"Happy New Year, Minerva," Tom replied and he gently tucked a strand of dark hair behind her ear, gazing at her motionlessly, the glasses of orange juice already long forgotten next to them on the windowsill .

And then, the first thing Minerva saw of the year 1941 was Tom's impish smirk as he leaned in to kiss her again.

* * *

_tbc_


	11. 1941 Part I

_Hi, **Megii of Mysteri Ous Stranger, Sarafina , Ijoan **and** EmilyScarlett**! Thank you very much for your reviews! Hope you like this chapter, too. Sorry for being a bit brief- it's late and I am not even supposed to update this - because I really have lots of things I should rather be doing, but oh well. Please tell me what you think ;)  
_

_Sachita :-)_

* * *

**Chapter Ten**_  
_

**Scotland, January 4th, 1941**

Father had, in a rare show of affection, allowed them to borrow the family sleigh. It was an old sleigh and a beautiful one, with intricate carvings on its sides and red upholstery.

Father had even transfigured a pair of mice into two stately horses. Tom and Minerva had watched in impressed awe. Transfigurations of this magnitude were always a hard thing to accomplish. Minerva had been secretly proud of her father, but when she had smiled at him, he had merely cleared his throat and looked away, ignoring the way Minerva's face fell.

But those gloomy thoughts were far from her mind now as they chased across the endless white landscapes, snow whirling and glistening all around them in the clear cold air. There were no clouds on the brilliant blue expanse of sky. The consequent cold that bit into their faces was barely alleviated by the weak winter sun, yet Minerva didn't mind it. She just huddled deeper into her winter coat and rubbed her hands against each other, sometimes smiling at Tom who was sitting next to her, clad in a similar fashion.

On a snowy hillock, sheltered from the harsh winds that howled over the Highlands by a few boulder rocks, they settled down for a short break. The horses were tiring and their pink nostrils widened with each harsh snort that left white clouds in the frigid air.

Minerva took a look at the snowy expanse in front of her and laughed in delight. The snow came up to her knees and she eventually allowed herself to fall back in the white mass, feeling as if she was nine again. Tom stayed next to the sleigh, watching her in silence.

He looked at her, how she fell back in so dramatic a pose, dark hair scattering all around her in the snow and green eyes alit with mirth as she gazed up to him, all flushed cheeks and snowflake-dusted eyelashes.

Tom felt an odd sort of possessiveness rise up within him. He would be great one day, for sure, admired and feared both- but no matter what, he'd keep Minerva. She was his and would be his in the future. And no one, no one, least of all that _villager_, was allowed to lay a hand on her or do anything to hurt her. Unconsciously, he clenched his fists.

His plans had become a lot more coherent and she would be a part of them. By his side forever. She was nearly as smart as him anyway so it wasn't as if he wasted his time on a pair of pretty eyes, like the other boys did. He snorted. He wasn't like the others and he knew it. He was better and he would show them all. She, she could be a valuable asset. His queen. A slight smile graced his sharply-cut features. He truly approved of this part of his plan.

"Tom!" Minerva's voice shook him out of his thoughts. "Tom," she repeated, dismayed at the way he stood there with that odd expression, as stiff as a board.

"What are you waiting for, silly?" she called, giggling at his scowl. Not even Tom Riddle's mood swings could make her good mood vanish on this day.

"I just don't see how deliberately allowing oneself to be soaked to the bone can be considered an activity worth pursuing," replied Tom airily.

"Have you never done this when you were small, Tom?"

Normally any reference to his childhood was designed to get a rise out of him and Minerva cringed inwardly. She did not want to ruin this day, for in spite of his current stillness, she had rarely seen Tom so carefree and relaxed as on this day. Part of her was actually tempted to think happy, remembering his genuine laugh at a joke she'd told earlier that day, but she didn't truly know whether he was happy or not being here with her.

During her ponderings, he had finally moved from his position next to the sleigh and had come to stand next to her. She sprang to her feet and nearly teetered of balance in the snowy slew, but Tom was quick to steady her.

"Thanks," she said a little out breath.

"You're welcome," was his smooth reply. "To answer your earlier question," he continued seamlessly, "No. If it snowed in London, it was never as pure as here. The cars and carriages muddy the snow quickly. It was never as pure and clean and never as beautiful as here in Scotland."

He carefully moved a strand of her hair out of her face, his cold touch startling her for she hadn't noticed him being so close out of the sudden. Minerva blushed. This thing between her and Tom hadn't been clearly defined yet and she couldn't help but feel very awkward at the touch of his long fingers.

As if he had read her thoughts, Tom moved away and flashed a sly smile that had Minerva itching to hit him. Instead, she gritted her teeth- that smug smirking Slytherin- and came back with a very belated reply: "Are you trying to tell me that you have never made a snow angel?"

Tom looked doubtfully at the shape Minerva had created with very vigorous movements of her limbs while lying in the snow. "If you ask me," he said drily, "It looks more like a snow witch."

"Tom!" cried Minerva in outrage. Tom laughed at her. His amusement, combined with the biting cold that had infused his pale cheeks and nose with red made him seem more animated than she had ever seen him. "A really odd witch, I might add," he went on. "Look at the odd shape of the head."

He was of course referring to the odd shapes that her long hair had left in the snow.

"You make a horrible angel," Tom told her, still smirking. Minerva's indignant mask cracked and she couldn't hold back a smirk of her own. "I suppose you are right, Tom. Why don't you try and see if you can make a snow angel?"

Dismay flashed across Tom's face but it was gone before Minerva saw it. "I'd make a horrible angel, too, Minerva," he answered shortly. "Besides, I told you already that I have no desire to get soaked to the bone." With that he strode towards the sleigh. Minerva looked after him, her merriment slowly fading. A sharp breeze from where they weren't sheltered by the boulders made her shiver, even though objectively nothing had changed; still, the sun was shining and the snow was glittering.

Minerva however wrapped her coat around her thin frame and hurried after Tom.

* * *

The sleigh ride home was silent. Minerva didn't know what she had done wrong, but she felt that it must have been something. Looking over to Tom, she saw that he was resolutely looking at the wintry landscape flying by. Squaring her shoulders determinedly, Minerva followed his example and looked in the other direction.

"I would make a horrible angel. They used to call us _little angels_," Tom said suddenly.

"Excuse me?"

"In the orphanage. The visitors who came to see if they would adopt someone always called us _little angels_. They never chose me, of course. The Muggles"- and he spat that word out- "would call us angels, even if they didn't care for our existence. We are orphans. The Nameless. The ones who won't be missed, the ones who won't be mourned if they were wiped out by some German bomb. How hypocritical. It's the same with the wizard community though. You don't exist for them if you don't have some age-old pureblood lineage card stored away somewhere."

Minerva had been listening to him in wide-eyed silence. She didn't know why he would divulge all this.

When their looks met, she was surprised to see that he did not look dismayed about his revelations to her, but rather composed as if he had become so used to living with the things he had just enumerated that it wasn't as if revealing his secrets meant exposing himself to her anymore. It was as if he had rather converted his vulnerabilities into a shield that left the other at a loss instead. Minerva was impressed by his tactics.

"Why are you telling me this, Tom?" she asked slowly, all words of comfort that she might have thought up stuck in her throat for she had understood some time ago that Tom hated being pitied.

The look of Tom's dark blue eyes was nearly hypnotising.  
"It's," he began, "something like an introduction to something else that I wish to know. You are from a Pureblood family and your family has enough riches so that you also have a place in the esteem of the consumer society of the Muggles. As such you seem to encompass exactly what I've just mentioned. So I am asking you, Minerva. Would you stand by my side? Or would you look down on me just like the others do?"

Minerva frowned at the question and wondered whether he hadn't really forgiven her for that moment in the park half a year ago after all. The answer came to her readily enough, it was a simple answer, yet things were never simple with Tom and who knew – maybe he was waiting for another answer entirely?

With an impatient gleam in the eye, Tom urged: "Come on, Minerva. I am waiting."  
"Why, yes, of course, "Minerva snapped in faint irritation. "What do you want from me, Tom?"

He didn't reply directly, instead smoothed his fringe of way hair back from his forehead. There was a feverish, nearly fanatical glint in the depths of his eyes.

"Even if it was Professor Dumbledore?"

At her confused look he said heatedly: "He looks down on me just the same. Do you know how many times I've tried to gain his approval, something that seems to come so effortlessly to you? Do you know hard I tried doing my first year at Hogwarts to win his recognition? But all he did was look at me as if I was an insect to be squashed, something disgusting…"

Tom sneered, his voice dripping with derision and his face contorted to a hateful mask. "He looked at me as if I was something dangerous. Something to be locked up. Just like the people in the Orphanage looked at me my entire life. As if I wasn't worth their appreciation, because I am a freak."

He clenched his fists, a wild angry look in his eyes that burned like fire but when his gaze met Minerva's there was surprise and dismay in his look, as if he had only just realised that he wasn't alone. She knew in that moment, that his words had come unchecked and that he had said more than he had initially wanted to.

Tom's tall frame was trembling after his outburst and his hands were white-knuckled as he clung to the red upholstery of the sleigh. Carefully, Minerva put a soothing hand on his arm.

She felt her heart beat to her throat because she knew that her next words would in some sense be decisive.

"I would even stand by your side against Dumbledore," she replied eventually, but added firmly, " Only if he did something unjust, of course."

But that second part didn't seem to deter Tom. With a quick movement he covered the distance between them and in a rare show of affection, crushed her against his side with a strong grip. "Thank you," he breathed and there was genuine gratitude in his voice.

Nearly smothered against his side, inhaling the smell of winter, books and clothes and something that was uniquely Tom, Minerva couldn't help but feel uneasy about what she'd just agreed to. Still, this was Tom, her Tom whom she held dear even if it was for his darkness and his twisted way of thinking, Tom who had endured so much in his life which maybe explained the way he acted and Tom who she didn't want to lose because he meant already too much to her.

The only thing she'd done after all was to affirm that she would stand by his side and defend him against clear injustice. The nagging inward voice wouldn't shut up though and only later, much later in her life did Minerva realise what the problem had been.

The definition of injustice varied after all from person to person.

* * *

**Hogwarts, February 14th, 1941**

"A bouquet of roses for the Lady," Peeves simpered some way ahead of her and a Hufflepuff Third Year shrieked as the poltergeist proceeded to let foul-smelling flowers rain down on her. A few Slytherins laughed at her misfortune.

"Minerva!" A fellow Gryffindor Prefect called James Taylor had spotted her and made his way over to her hurriedly. "Please stop him. You are the only one he sometimes listens to."

Minerva sighed and nodded her acquiescence. "I'll try." Walking over to the unfortunate Hufflepuff and her companions briskly, she barked a harsh: "Peeves!"

The poltergeist froze in midair, his mouth comically half-opened and just in the process of throwing another bouquet of foul-smelling roses at the girls. "Peeves! Don't you remember our little conversation from a few days ago?"

Peeves looked defiant, but he slowly dropped the bouquet and floated away, muttering rude words about "Evil Minnie Mouse spoiling all the fun!"

"I wish I'd know how you do it," James said in awe, his blue eyes wide with wonderment.

Minerva merely smiled and nodded at him, then walked away. She wasn't about to divulge the little advantage she had over Peeves out of all people to James who could never keep his mouth shut.

Poppy caught up to her when she was on her way to the Great Hall to get some lunch.

"Min," she greeted cheerily.

"Hello Poppy," Minerva replied. "Are you going to accompany me to lunch? "

"Sure." Poppy leaned closer with a playful gleam in her brown eyes. "I heard you had a run-in with our resident poltergeist today."

"How did you come to hear that?"

Poppy laughed. "Why, our resident press reporter of course."

"James," Minerva guessed and when Poppy nodded, she was instantly even gladder that she hadn't told the boy anything. He'd ruin everything.

"You could tell me why Peeves obeys you and I promise I won't tell a soul," Poppy whispered.

Minerva smirked. "Well, he is a _male_ poltergeist and after I threatened to…well, let's say, hex a few important parts…of course it's not possible, mind you, but he doesn't know that. I merely said I was resourceful and he believed that."

Poppy nearly fell over with laughter. "Merlin, Minerva!" she cried in exuberance. "I wouldn't want you as my enemy!"

Minerva snorted and held the door open for her friend.

The Great Hall was filled with bustling owls, more so than usual.

Also there were pink translucent hearts floating in the air and there was a lemondrop on each plate. She looked suspiciously to the teacher's table just in time to see Professor Dumbledore smile at her, his blue eyes twinkling madly behind his half-moon glasses.

Minerva returned his smile and then looked to Poppy on her right side.

"So…have any Valentines today?"

Poppy blushed instantly and Minerva couldn't help but rib her on a bit. "Maybe from a certain Ravenclaw Fourth Year called William Thornton?" Poppy's blush intensified. "He sent a card and flowers," she replied with a little happy smile. "What about you, Min?" she asked with a mischievous grin.

"Well, I-"Minerva started but broke off as they approached their usual places at the long Gryffindor table. There was a bouquet of red roses at her place as well as a bar of white chocolate. Minerva hated white chocolate with a passion. When she looked over to the Slytherin table, taking care not to look too noticeably, Tom merely shook his head, but he was glaring. Minerva frowned at him and stared again at the bouquet. Maybe it wasn't for her? No, it was for her. There was a small envelope tied to the roses, saying "Minerva" in bold letters.

"How romantic," Aimee sighed. Minerva shot her a look and moved to open the envelope. Her relationship with the girls in her own year had improved somewhat ever since she had befriended the cheerful amicable Poppy who helped mend some bridges, but Minerva had no desire to go beyond that. She had Poppy's friendship and via Poppy had also made the acquaintance of a few other Fourth Year Gryffindor girls and she had of course Tom.

Tom, who still hadn't told her, what she was to him now, but who was glaring holes into her back over from the Slytherin table. She could see it out of the corners of her eyes. Ignoring him- he hadn't thought to send her anything today after all!- she unfolded the letter.

_Roses are red, Violets are blue, Sugar is sweet and so are you- guess who._

"How imaginative," Poppy sniped.

Minerva looked up from the card to gaze around the Great Hall. To her astonishment, Jonathan Davies, an Irishman in Ravenclaw whom Elma had once, years ago, decided to be amongst the most handsome boys of the school winked at her.

He _was_ handsome, no doubt there, with his brown hair that had been rakishly combed to one side and his clear green eyes...

In spite of herself, Minerva blushed.

But…she chanced another look at Tom, who was looking absolutely livid. If he didn't even bother to show his outward stoicism she knew it had to be really dreadful.

Suddenly concerned for Jonathan's safety, she scribbled a return note and handed it to Hannah, a First Year, one of the students who she tutored. "Could you please give this to Jonathan Davies?"

"Certainly," Hannah beamed and Minerva felt a little guilty for exploiting the girl's affection. She decided to be extra thorough in her tuition session next time and see that the girl learned even more.

Jonathan's face fell when he received the note and he turned away from her, but Minerva felt immensely relieved.

"What did you write to him?" Poppy asked in surprise.

"That I don't return his affections," Minerva sighed.

"What?" Elma asked loudly, her policy of not talking to Minerva apparently forgotten. "How could you? He is one of the best-looking boys at the entire school! Any girl would be lucky to have him!"

"I do not recall asking you for your opinion, Elma. Also, I have my reasons," was all Minerva said to that. Poppy next to her positioned herself between the red-haired girl and Minerva, deliberately ignoring the former.

"If you want to talk, you know where to find me," she said softly. Minerva felt an unexpected burst of warmth at Poppy's words, happy to have found such a good friend. After she'd come to thank her for telling Professor Dumbledore about her whereabouts when Accuratore had attempted to silence Tom and her, Poppy had also asked very little questions. She was not naïve and probably knew more than she let on, but she was too loyal to Minerva to ask.

William Thornton, tall, dark-haired and suave, chose that moment to approach their table. "Might I persuade this Lady to have her lunch with me over at the Ravenclaw table?" he asked and smiled at Poppy, who blushed and took his hand. Minerva looked after them in fondness. They made a good couple, she thought, both of them having warm-hearted dispositions and a talent to cheer their classmates up whenever one of them was down- not a rarity in these dark days. War was after all still looming over them.

For a second she wished Tom would just stop the secrecy and she wished that they could be like Poppy and William, departing the Great Hall hand in hand with only eyes for one another.

Free of the talk that this action would arouse, free of the disdain of the Slytherins and Gryffindors alike. Just her and Tom and the entire world open to them. For a moment she wished they could embark on a journey to see the entire world, just the two of them, free of preconceived notions, societal rules and regulations- visit India, Africa, the Americas, see New York and all those places her brother told her about. Her heart sank as she thought about all the reasons why this wasn't possible now and would probably be never possible for the two of them.

Shaking herself out of her reverie, she looked again to the Slytherin table. Tom, much to her surprise, was not at his usual place. Quickly, she looked over to the Ravenclaw table. Jonathan, however, was still there and looking at her accusingly when her eyes fell on him.

Minerva quickly looked away and sat down to have lunch, ignoring Elma's incredulous stares, who after a while tired of being ignored and looked away.

* * *

After Transfiguration, Minerva was walking out of the door of the classroom, chatting with Professor Dumbledore about the Fifth Law of Elemental Transfiguration, something that interested her immensely, when they came upon a very strange sight.

Minerva gasped and a hand flew to her mouth. She didn't even notice that she had stopped talking in the middle of a sentence.

Jonathan Davies, face pale and a bruise adorning his cheek was being led along the corridor by none other than Tom, who appeared composed and a little concerned as he helped Davies hobble along. Davies was visibly swaying and having trouble concentrating on his steps. His immaculate hairdo was all over the place and there was a strange, wild look in his eyes.

Minerva couldn't do anything but stare in shocked silence. When she met Tom's eyes he looked unperturbed at her horrified look.

"Mister Riddle, Mister Davies," Dumbledore said in obvious worry, "what happened?"

"I found Jonathan like this when I crossed a corridor to get to the Common Room, sir," Tom explained seriously, every inch the model student. Oh, and he had his act down to a tee. Everyone would believe this handsome boy with the earnest blue eyes, but Minerva had seen how he had glared over to Jonathan at dinner.

The Professor didn't seem to be entirely convinced either. The quick thoughtful look he shot at Minerva had her thinking that maybe he suspected more than he let on, too.

"Very well, Mister Riddle. Do you have any idea who might have done this to him?"

"No, sir." Tom shook his head, a perturbed look on his face. "I would have brought them to see the Headmaster otherwise, sir. But there was no one."

"Mister Davies," Dumbledore said after a short pause, "what can you tell us?"

Jonathan seemed barely coherent, hanging there in Tom's grip. His words were slurred. "I dunno, sir. Don't remember- just remember Riddle helping me."

"Alright. I shall accompany you to the hospital wing. Miss McGonagall, we will continue our discussion as soon as possible. I find the topic extremely important."

"Thank you, sir," Minerva said and watched the little procession. Before they rounded the corner, Tom turned back to her and she was sure that she could read a "Later" on his lips.

* * *

Indeed, he found her later, as she was attempting to enter the Great Hall. She was late for dinner, almost too late, but she hoped she could grab something quick to eat nonetheless.

That was when he came from seemingly out of nowhere and grabbed her upper arms harshly.

"Tom!" Minerva cried. "Let me go!"

He did let her go then and brushed a hand through his raven locks, visibly upset. "The nerve of that Davies," he seethed. Abruptly his look shot to her. "Did you encourage him?"

"What," Minerva cried, "no, I did not! What did you to him? What did you do, Tom?"

Tom smiled sickeningly slowly. "I didn't do anything, Minerva," he drawled calmer.

"What did you let your- your _minions_ then do to him?"

"No one harms what is mine, Minnie," Tom explained tersely.

"That's not a reply to my question! And I shall have you know that I am no one's, least of all yours, Tom Riddle!"

Tom gave her a look that bordered on wry amusement. "I thought that I am your gentleman friend, Minerva," he said softly. "Isn't that how they call it nowadays?"

Earlier that day she would have been delighted to hear him confirm it, delighted and slightly apprehensive at the same time, but in that moment she only felt anger.  
"That doesn't give you the right to harm an innocent, Tom!" she snapped crossly.

"Oh Minerva," he breathed and crossed the distance between them, "You are beautiful when you are agitated."

Before she could have reacted, his lips were on hers.

In the same moment, the doors of the Great Hall opened as dinner was now officially over and Minerva and Tom found themselves facing the looks of the entire school as they still stood there lip-locked.

Minerva pushed away from him. She only saw Poppy's surprised and slightly betrayed look in the mass of Gryffindors and oddly enough, Professor Dumbledore's surprised and dismayed expression from the teachers table.

Then she turned around and ran.

* * *

Poppy found her that evening, sitting alone on the floor of the Astronomy Tower.

"I wouldn't have said anything, you know," she said quietly.

"I know," Minerva answered and she was horrified to hear that her voice was cracking.

"Oh Minerva," Poppy said softly. "You don't have to be made of stone all the time."

That did it- Minerva found herself suddenly breaking out into great, gulping sobs that left her breathless for a long time, sitting there on the cold stony floor, Poppy's warm hand on her shoulder her only comfort.

* * *

**Hogwarts, Early March 1941**

"You need to wave your wand a bit differently. Watch me and see how I am doing it."

"It's so hard!"

"You just have to try," Minerva gave back in frustration. She had been attempting to teach the spell, a simple levitation spell, to Myrtle for an hour now and there was no progress because the girl was as stubborn as a mule.

"Minerva….can I ask you something?" There was a hopelessly lost look in Myrtle's wide grey eyes behind her glasses that had Minerva sigh.

"Yes, Myrtle?"

"Are you and Tom…is he your gentleman friend?"

Minerva looked at her for a second. "That is none of your business, Myrtle," she replied none-too-unfriendly, but with firmness.

"Because I saw you and him kissing. But Olive Hornby- although she is mean to me-" for a second Minerva feared the girl might start crying- "said that he does strange things. She says the Slytherins follow him. Sometimes he and some of the older students disappear for hours. Olive has watched them, she told me. She says he is wrong. But he is such a gentleman! And so handsome!"

Myrtle looked tearfully at Minerva for a second, shaking her long braids, before stammering: "But he isn't wrong, is he? Olive is just being mean? You would know wouldn't you?"

Minerva felt a jolt go through her at Myrtle's words. She wasn't so sure that Olive Hornby hadn't been telling the truth about Tom getting up to something with his fellow Slytherins. The girl was dim-witted and mean and embodied only the bad traits of the Slytherin house, but Minerva knew that she also possessed an uncanny attentiveness.

"I am sure she is wrong, Myrtle," she replied shortly. "Now concentrate on your wand movements."

* * *

**Professor Dumbledore's Office, Hogwarts, March 1941**

"Are you well, Minerva?"

Minerva had been brooding for weeks over Myrtle's words at that point. Tom had several times attempted to talk to her, but she would have none of it, as hard as that was at times. Word had been going round that they had a row and so Minerva was the recipient of many looks, some smug, some pitying. The looks she received from many girls were filled with plain dislike though.

But they all had no idea of what Tom could be like. Jonathan Davies hadn't looked at her again after his release from Madam Yuhe's care and there was an odd kind of terror and nervousness to him that hadn't been there before.

"I am sorry, Professor," she replied after a short pause. "I got lost in thought. I am fine, thank you."

Dumbledore eyed her thoughtfully over his steaming cup of tea. They were having one of their regular meetings over a cup of tea. Normally, Minerva enjoyed these meetings a lot for the Professor was her role model and a highly intellectual interlocutor whom she could learn a lot from, but the thoughts of Tom kept nagging at her.

"I couldn't help but notice that there seems to be something wrong between you and Mister Riddle," her favourite Professor pressed on. Minerva looked up and caught a very concerned look from him.

"It's nothing," she replied quickly. Her problems were her own and she didn't like to accept help from the outside.

"Of course," the Professor said politely. "I have here, however, a book that you might enjoy."

He handed a thick volume with a green cover to her. Minerva read the intricate golden letters on it with great surprise.

"The process of becoming an Animagus," she read out loud and then looked up. "Professor, why did you give me this book?"

"I have found it to be an interesting read, Minerva," was all he would say. "Take a look at it, will you? I should very much like to discuss the section on elemental transfiguration processes mentioned in chapter three with you when you come around for the next round of tea."

"Of course, Professor," Minerva replied mechanically and put the book away. Even if it was something that would have very much interested her on any normal day, now she couldn't fake interest. Tom and his group of Slytherins kept nagging at her.

"May I be excused, Professor?" she inquired finally. "It's going to be a long day tomorrow and it's getting late."

"Of course," the Professor replied considerately. "Please, just promise me something," he said and Minerva wouldn't ever forget the intent expression on his wise face on that day.

"Yes, Professor?" she asked curiously.

"Be careful," Professor Dumbledore said and leaned back, regarding her with an inscrutable look. "Be careful whatever you do."

Minerva looked at him in puzzled silence for a moment, but she nodded and got up finally, wishing him a goodnight and heading towards Gryffindor Tower.

The idea came to her as she was walking back to the Common Room. It was a risky idea, but she knew that otherwise it would never leave her alone.

Only later, much later, did it occur to her that it was exactly because of this idea why Professor Dumbledore had given her the book on Animagi.

* * *

_tbc_


	12. 1941 Part II

_Hello everyone! I am sorry, it's been some time, but I am still very busy and university asks a lot these days. Really, I shouldn't update this, but I couldn't help it :D Minerva and Tom were complaining :P This is a quite long chapter to compensate you for the long wait._

_Thank you very very much for your amazing reviews, they made me finish this chapter quicker- thank you** sarafina, Valentina, alexandra, Meg, Anjie, ASH** (sorry I haven't replied to your reply, I'll do it soon) and **Cos I'm Awesome** (nice nickname by the way :D) !_

_Meg- there is a cut off date in Germany, too, and it seems now that we don't do it that differently, but I was quite a bit confused about how you handle things in the UK back then, so thank you for telling me :)_

_I am sorry if there are glaring mistakes in this chapter. I did not do a lot of proof-reading due to a lack of time- it's really late here and I really really have a few things I need to do for university, but I wanted to update this anyway. Please tell me if there are horrible mistakes. Please tell me your thoughts.  
_

_Sachita :-)  
_

* * *

**Chapter Eleven**

**Forbidden Forest, Summer 1941**

A mouse was running across some twigs in the moonlit silence of the Forbidden Forest, its miniscule feet making noise inaudible for human ears but loud like drums in the ears of the cat sitting motionlessly in the shadows of the nearby bush. Its yellow eyes watched the mouse's process indifferently. The night hid its form largely from view; only the eyes that were glowing like lanterns remained visible.

The mouse, sensing some form of danger, stilled in its motions, round ears twitching nervously, the black eyes anxious. The hunter took a chance, lunged- and stilled suddenly.

Full of terror, the mouse scrambled away. The cat, on the other hand had stopped in the middle of its motion. It seemed confused. Its long whiskers trembled and in an oddly un-cat-like motion, the tabby cat put a paw on its nose, then sat still and closed its eyes, as if in the process of recalling something.

Something very odd happened then; the form of the cat seemed to dissolve and morph into something different. The mouse watched from underneath the roots of an ancient tree in frozen terror what was unfolding. Instead of fur, the cat now had hair, long dark hair that curled at the edges, a human face, long dark lashes that brushed over pale cheeks and hid vibrant eyes from view; long pale legs and arms. The mouse had seen enough. With a shrill squeak it disappeared in the treacherous safety of the Forbidden Forest.

Meanwhile, the girl that was lying there instead of the cat took a deep breath and opened her eyes, revealing a deep shade of green. For a while she could only lie there motionlessly, processing what had happened. How deeply intense the smells had been for a while there; the mouldy wet smell of moss, the dry wooden smell of the old oak's bark over there and the unique scent of a forest after a rain shower.

How alive everything had felt underneath her…her paws- soft compliant grass and the harsh texture of the bare earth…and then her ears! She had never heard so much at once before. The birds did not only sing, but their songs revealed so much more; experiences of a life that seemed short in the minds of humans but endless in those songs…even the ants had stories to tell, stories of hardship and never-ending diligence. She felt revered, awed, humiliated and honoured at the same time that she had been allowed to experience all this.

"June 15th, 1941," the girl mumbled quietly to herself, "and I finally made it. I, Minerva McGonagall, have mastered the animagus transformation." Minerva laughed softly, an oddly untroubled sound. If only her mother could see her now! Yes, it was in the middle of the night and she had probably broken just about a dozen rules, yes, she had twigs and leaves and god-knew-what in her hair, yes she might have eaten a mouse had she not managed to suppress the cat instincts in time- but she had made it! She had experimented and learned and studied hard over the summer to achieve this. So often she had not succeeded, had become angry at herself and increasingly taciturn at Poppy, had studied even harder as a result, had doubted herself and her abilities- and now she had made it.

The book Professor Dumbledore had given her had said that the animagus form a person morphed into reflected their inner character. A tabby cat- was she like that? Stealthy, certainly, light and quick, smart- cunning…The last thought made her frown because cunning sounded a whole lot like Slytherin- and she really did not want to think about Slytherin right now because it only reminded her of Tom. And she did not wish to think about Tom…she missed him.

Sometimes she thought the entire day of him; the way the light would catch on his hair and illuminate reddish highlights, the way his eyes lit up when he smiled one of his rare smiles, his dry wit and his brilliance, the way he'd say her name, making it sound wholesome and exotic at the same time…yet whenever her thoughts strayed in that direction, a pale face flashed in front of her eyes. She could close her eyes now and the face appeared- it was not Tom's face. Instead, Jonathan Davies's handsome yet pallid and fearful visage flashed past her eyes. No, she could not forgive Tom. He had crossed a line this time and for her own sake she needed to stay away from him.

Most of all though, she needed to know what he was up to, which had of course been the reason for her practicing becoming an animagus in the first place. She needed to become quiet and devious and she needed to train herself to become nigh invisible because oh, if Tom was anything , he was good. Myrtle had told her that Tom and some of his "followers" often disappeared for hours at a time. Dear Merlin, she only hoped that she wouldn't stumble across something gruesome for a part of her still wanted to forgive Tom…and she might find it in herself to forgive him if he apologised to Jonathan, but she knew she could never forgive him if he did something else…something horrible. The way he liked to talk about Muggles…what if he unleashed some of that hidden anger on the Muggleborns at the school?

Sucking in a small, apprehensive gasp, Minerva finally got to her feet. It had become cold and chilly. Slight wisps of fog crept from some bushes and encircled her bare legs. The sounds of the night did not seem as intriguing as before, only hostile and slightly creepy. She shuddered, gathered her skirt and drew her coat tightly around herself, before sneaking back to the castle across the Grounds.

Standing in the girls' washrooms that night she felt something funny between her teeth. Tentatively she reached into her mouth and withdrew a few odd pieces of something that she identified as cat fur. Staring at her reflection, she found herself shaking with silent laughter: "Yuck."

* * *

**Professor Dumbledore's office, June 1941**

"Ah, Miss McGonagall," Professor Dumbledore greeted, looking up from a stack of exams he was grading as she entered, the intense blue eyes twinkling at her. "Please, take a seat."

Minerva sank down on a simple wooden chair in front of his desk, feeling oddly nervous. A question was trying to make its way over her lips, yet she couldn't bring herself to actually asking it. Checking herself, she dug her fingers into her thighs, leaving white indentations in the shapes of crescent moons.

"How are you today, Miss McGonagall?," the Professor asked her steadily, finally putting his papers away.

"Fine, Professor, thank you. I hope you are well also?" Merlin, she was stammering. For some reason what Tom had said about Dumbledore in the winter holidays was now coming back to her. Of course it was a load of tosh, but still it affected the way she was acting around the Professor now. Annoyed she realised that by thinking of Tom's words she was allowing him to indirectly gain the upper hand.

So she deliberately pasted a smile on her face as she met the Professor's searching look again. His next words had her again on edge though.

"Did you peruse that volume on Animagi I gave you this winter, Miss McGonagall?"

Minerva felt instant panic rise up within her. Did he know about her successful transformation? He wasn't supposed to, not yet. No one was, not until she had found out more about Tom's plans, for being an Animagus meant having to register with the Ministry. Since becoming an Animagus was a lengthy and difficult process it was rare that new Animagi got registered and as such her registration would hardly stay unnoticed.

"I did," she choked finally out. "It was a very interesting book."

Was there a hint of disappointment on the wise Professor's face now? Had he actually meant for her to become an Animagus? He knew how close she and Tom were, well, everybody knew after what had happened in front of the Great Hall…but did he expect her to use this knowledge? Did he expect her to spy on Tom?

"Miss McGonagall," the Professor said finally, leaning forward and folding his long hands while giving her an intent look. "I must ask you something which is of great importance. You and Mister Riddle have a good relationship. Do you feel he has been acting odd lately?"

"No," Minerva forced out. Yes, Tom had been acting odd, but Dumbledore's words seemed to simultaneously reinforce Tom's own theory- maybe the Professor really specifically had something against him. But why? The only ones who would have noticed Tom acting strangely were her and the Slytherins, but the latter were hardly going to say anything against their leader, now were they? She certainly hadn't mentioned anything. It was very hard to keep the distrust out of her eyes when she looked again at her favourite Professor.

"Will you tell me if something suspicious arises, Miss McGonagall?" he pressed on.

"Are you asking me to spy on Tom, Professor?" Minerva asked incredulously and this time, she knew, the disbelief was clearly audible in her voice.

"I wouldn't phrase it as such, Miss McGonagall," the Professor replied patiently, "but I shall only ask you to keep your eyes open. Can you do that for me?"

Minerva breathed deeply out. She would keep her eyes open but not necessarily for Professor Dumbledore's benefit. Although she supported his allegations that something was going on with Tom, she could not help but agree with the latter's hypothesis as well. Tom had truly never given Dumbledore cause to dislike him as far as she knew, so why did the Professor have such distrust towards him? Minerva didn't like it because Tom was for all his faults and darkness, first and foremost one of her dearest friends. No one attacked Minerva's friends. Not even Professor Dumbledore.

"I will keep my eyes open," she promised and for a moment, felt as insidious as a Slytherin. She would pay attention but she did not plan on reporting anything to Professor Dumbledore.

Suddenly the tension that had been hanging in the room dissipated. The Professor leaned back and smiled at her nearly fatherly.

"Very well, Miss McGonagall, then let's go on to discussing your career wishes. Have you ever thought about becoming a teacher?"

"No, sir, I haven't," Minerva replied defiantly although she had, but in this moment she really disliked Dumbledore and everything he stood for.

The Professor's face fell a little and he seemed oddly sad for a moment when he regarded her. Then, he sighed very quietly and privately. A second later it seemed as if she had been imagining things, for his usual sunny smile was back.

"Very well then. Before we continue, Miss McGonagall, would you care for a lemon drop?"

* * *

**A few days later, Entrance to the Great Hall  
**

"Minerva! Minerva! Minerva!"

"Yes, Myrtle?" Minerva replied, not unkindly. Myrtle seemed excited; she was beaming with all the might of her thirteen years.

"Your friend Poppy gave me this. It arrived with the usual mail at lunch. Why did you miss lunch again?"

"I was simply not hungry," Minerva told her, taking the proffered envelope. It was a lie, she had been hungry, but the house elves had been delighted to help her out. She tended to avoid the Great Hall these days, because Jonathan's terrified stares -if he dared to look – combined with Riddle's glares gave her headaches.

"You know," Myrtle gushed, taking Minerva's words at face value, "I was complimented on my spells today! By Professor Dumbledore." Surprisingly, for she was usually not one to thank others, Myrtle added a "That's only because of your tuition lessons, Minerva. Thank you!"

Minerva glanced up in bemusement. There was a genuine smile on Myrtle's face and her grey eyes were wide with excitement. She really meant it. "You are welcome, Myrtle."

"I got to go now, Minerva! I'll see you soon!"

"Bye," Minerva called after her as she disappeared in a mass of Ravenclaws. Myrtle might turn out to be a formidable Ravenclaw after all, she mused.

"So what did she do this time?" Poppy had appeared to her left, rusty-coloured locks immaculately combed and a mischievous look in her warm brown eyes. Minerva smiled at her. Poppy was always very neat, but this time she had taken things to extremes, making Minerva think that she would be meeting her boyfriend later on.

"Actually," Minerva paused and enjoyed the look of anticipation on Poppy's face, "she thanked me."

Poppy gasped. "She thanked you? Oh, my heart," she proclaimed dramatically.

Minerva laughed. Poppy had always been able to make her smile.

"Shall we meet up in the library after classes today?" Poppy asked. "I can question you about your Advanced Transfiguration, if you want to."

"Oh good Merlin! The OWLs!" Minerva gasped.

Poppy snorted. "Oh, don't tell me," she said, sidestepping a herd of Hufflepuffs who attempted to pass her, "you forgot about them because I don't believe you!" The last part had been a yell because now lunch was over and masses of pupils filled the corridors.

"Well, no," Minerva yelled back in genuine despair, "I forgot to learn today!"

"Good Merlin, Minerva." Poppy glared at her. "You study more than half the school does in two years! Relax, will you! You will do well." In an effort to distract Minerva, she asked finally: "What about, well, you know?"

"Nothing," Minerva sighed. The person they had been talking about happened to emerge from the Great Hall just then. He caught Minerva's look and she quickly forced herself to look away before she could get lost in Tom's intense stare.

"It will all turn out to be alright," Poppy said comfortingly and squeezed her arm. "I have to go, Minerva. See you later in the library!"

"Alright," Minerva replied loudly, watching as Poppy was swept up in the general chaos of screaming and laughing students. Then she too, turned around to get to her next class, Advanced Arithmancy.

While walking, she tore the envelope open. It was a letter from Abigail.

_"Dear Minerva,"_ it said in Abigail's scrawled handwriting, _"You surely know that my mother has taken ill for I believe I mentioned it in my last letter to you."_

That had Minerva frown, Abigail normally kept a quite remarkable track of what she had told Minerva and what she hadn't told her- the illness of her mother had certainly not been mentioned in the last letter. Also, the complete lack of the usual introductory phrases told its own story about Abigail's mental state.

_"Ever since father passed away two years ago it's been increasingly difficult for Mother. Some say she has lost the will to live. Michael is thankfully here to support me and sometimes Mrs. Goodie, the wife of the butcher- I am sure you do remember her- comes by to lend assistance to us in the shop. Of course it's not a situation that can last forever and we all know that but at present I see no other way. It's difficult being the only woman in the house. Each night I fall in my bed dead tired. But I do not want to complain. Michael is being a dear, of course, but he lacks experience in the work only women would know. Sometimes it all gets too much. Also I fear that Michael might be drafted. Whatever would happen to Mother and me? Oh Minerva, I hope this letter finds you in better spirits than I am in at this moment._

_All my love,_

_Abigail."_

Oh, poor, poor Abby. Minerva was already thinking of ways how to best help her, when the sharp voice of Professor Shihab, her Arithmancy Professor, interrupted her.

"Do you plan on standing there the entire day Miss McGonagall? Or would you care to take a seat and grace us with your attention?"

Minerva went beet red, noticing that she was standing motionlessly in the middle of the classroom with the letter clutched in her fist. "Of course, Professor."

* * *

**Hogwarts, Forbidden Forest, Summer 1941**

The cat's paws barely made any sound as it quickly hushed through the moonlit shadows of the trees. This cold summer night felt alien to her, foreign even.

The bushes swayed like forbidding monsters and every breeze in the trees sounded like a vengeful ghost intent on getting to her. The cat's fur rippled as it turned, in indecision, gazing toward the lights of the castle that were shining through the silhouettes of some trees.

A sudden rustling sound in the trees next to her alerted her. There was someone! Who? And where?

Again, a sound. The cat tensed, for it had sounded like the snapping of teeth.

Shuddering, she turned to her right. Yellow eyes stared back at her from out of the darkness.

The cat screamed.

* * *

Tom had snuck out of the castle late at night, but he himself preferred the term "temporarily seeking reprieve outside". Having a middle-sized viper as a pet sometimes created certain obstacles, for the snake needed to be fed, needed to hunt live animals and there were few in Hogwarts who understood a snake's needs for few had snakes as pets.

But Tom understood his snake. She was an elegant green snake, extravagant and very much a grande dame in a way, completely loyal in another. The snake was his trusted friend, his most loyal follower. She was called Nagini, not a name Tom had chosen, but a name Nagini herself had chosen. She had told him so when he had discovered her, on a sunny day at the Thames where the orphanage matron had taken them to in one summer for a few days.

Tom remembered vividly when he had first discovered he could talk to snakes- it had been in 1933, when he had been six years old and a common smooth snake had been dozing on the stones in the sun behind the orphanage…

* * *

**Near** **Wool's Orphanage, London, Summer 1933**

"I wish I could be like you," the dark-haired pale boy told the snake dozing in the sun, small face smeared with tears. He had barely escaped this time. They had hunted him all through the orphanage, Dennis Bishop who was a few years older than him leading them, calling him freak for he had made the windows explode the day before. But he hadn't meant to! Thankfully there had been an opened window and he had been able to climb outside quickly and run away, albeit earning bruised knees in the process.

The snake raised its head and hissed, but Tom wasn't afraid. This snake was of the non-venomous kind, he had read up on them in the huge volume of _Brehm's Life of Animals, _a book with faded golden letters he had found in the orphanage's attic. They had never bothered to look for him in the attic before that was why he was often up there.

"Oh, don't make such a fuss," he told the snake superiorly. "You are non-venomous, I read up on you."

The snake seemed to cock its head. "You are a smart little boy."

Tom blinked, turning around, looking for the owner of the voice in slight panic. There was no one. Puzzled he turned back to the snake.

There was a sigh. "Or maybe not."

Tom's eyes grew wide. "Did you just talk to me?"

"No. You are hearing voices." The voice sounded a little annoyed.

"It was you," Tom accused.

A little noise that sounded like hissing laughter came. "Of course it was me, lad. So pray tell me, why would you want to be like me?"

Tom decided that he'd give up on being confused by the snake. So maybe he was crazy, it was what everyone told him all day long anyway. Completely unafraid, he ran his small hand over the smooth brown scales of the snake, which felt surprisingly dry and sun-warmed.

"You can just lie in the sun and enjoy the day," he told the snake sadly. "They don't call you freak. You don't have to run so they don't hurt you."

The snake hissed sympathetically. "A couple of boys tried to attack me yesterday with stones, but I was able to frighten them and chase them away. Normally, humans don't like me either."

Tom and the snake sat outside for the entire day, trading stories. The little boy had never felt so accepted before. In the evening, when it was time to sneak back inside before they closed the gates, the snake told him: "Come back tomorrow, laddie. I enjoyed talking to you."

And that was what Tom did, nearly every other day he met the snake in the sunny spot beyond the orphanage, until one day when the same cruel bullies from the orphanage killed his friend with a few well-aimed stones. Tom vowed to get revenge on them on that day.

And he had…oh he had…

* * *

**Hogwarts Grounds, Summer 1941**

Tom was shaken out of his thoughts when Nagini returned. "Nagini," he asked, "did you find something to eat? Can we go back to the castle?"

"No, Master," Nagini hissed, a title she insisted on calling him, but which Tom had come to appreciate, "I found something else. I found a girl. At the edge of the forest."

"A girl?" Tom furrowed his brow.

"Yes. It's that girl you spend so much time with."

"Minerva?" Tom asked and a hint of apprehension crept into his voice. He could feel his heart beating to his throat when Nagini confirmed it.

Minerva hadn't talked to him for nearly five months, ever since that incident with that insufferable Jonathan Davies. Tom found that he couldn't stand it anymore. His plans were incoherent without her, nothing seemed to work. Even his grades had started to suffer from his inattention, not really noticeably, of course, but enough so that it was noticeable for Tom. He hated it, hated how much it showed his dependency on her, but yes, he needed her back. If only so that he could stop thinking about her silence and start concentrating on the important matters again.

"Where is she?" he asked tensely.

"Follow me, Master," Nagini replied and slithered through the high grass, Tom running to keep up with her.

Minerva was lying at the edge of the forest, her face horribly pale, dark hair splaying out over the grass. Her clothes were slashed at her right side, as if a large animal had dug its claws into her body. Tom fell to his knees beside her and put a hand to her waist, gasping upon seeing that it came away red.

"Minerva," he whispered and he didn't even try to conceal the tremor in his voice.

She was so awfully pale. He brushed a few dark strands out of her face, icy shivers racing down his spine. "Who did this to you?"

"Shouldn't you be getting her to the hospital wing?" Nagini asked matter-of-factly.

"Yes," Tom said, trying to gather himself. He attempted to hoist Minerva up in his arms, but failed, sending them both tumbling into the grass again. Minerva didn't even stir.

"Master, you are a wizard," Nagini again, and this time she sounded amused even though Tom had no reason to share in her amusement.

"Right," he muttered, unable to say anything else.

With a simple levitating spell he made Minerva's limp body float ahead of him as he hurried back to the castle, Nagini wrapped around his shoulders. At the side door he had used to sneak out of the castle he glanced back at the dark mass of the Forest. A forbidding howl resounded. Tom quickly turned away.

Madam Yuhe was, of course, out of her mind with worry when Tom came knocking at her door so late at night. "What-"She caught sight of Minerva's limp body and gasped. "Come on."

"Where did you find her?" Madam Yuhe asked over her shoulder, her wizened face creased in worry.

"Outside," Tom explained vaguely, having no wish to tell her that he'd been so close to the Forbidden Forest. They'd get in enough trouble as it was anyway for being outside so late.

Tom followed her and gently lowered Minerva to one of the simple white beds in a secluded corner of the hospital wing. He looked at her and lightly brushed her hair out her face. There was a piece of fur in her fist, Tom noted bemusedly and he carefully disentangled her fingers around it. It was soft fur, not unlike that of felines. Tom shook his head- odd- and acting on impulse pocketed the piece of fur.

The Mediwitch was meanwhile bustling about, turning on the old-fashioned bedside lamps with the golden pedestals with a flick of her wand, gathering her supplies and trying to put her long hair into a braid at the same time. Tom was annoyed at her actions because Minerva was lying right there and the Mediwitch was fixing her hair!

"Madam Yuhe," he said tightly.

She turned to him as if seeing him for the first time. "What are you still doing here, Mister Riddle? Let me do my work. You can't do anything for her now. Come back tomorrow."

Reluctantly, Tom left the hospital wing. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw that the Mediwitch was starting to remove Minerva's clothes, revealing smooth creamy skin. Hastily, he looked away, his face burning.

Nagini was waiting for him outside. "What do we do now, Master?"

Tom didn't even think about his words before he said them. "We devise a plan to get Minerva back," was all he said.

"Is that wise?" his trusted companion queried simply.

Tom shot her a glare. "Don't question my decisions, Nagini," he said sternly yet quietly. "I need her for my plan, that's all you need to know. The first thing I need to do is to tell Avery that the meeting should be adjourned to next week so I can think about this without his or any of the others' nagging."

What he didn't even admit to himself though, was that he needed Minerva not only for his plans. Mostly, he just needed her for his own sake.

* * *

**A few days later, Hospital Wing**

Tom felt as if he was being questioned by all His Majesty's Courts at once. The Head of the House of Slytherin, Professor Slughorn was standing next to Professor Dumbledore, the Head of the House of Gryffindor, Madam Yuhe was hovering in the background, nervously fiddling with her long black braid and Headmaster Dippet stood a little off at the side. Altogether, they formed a somewhat intimidating display, but Tom refused to be intimidated.

Minerva had been propped up in her bed, a mass of pillows holding her half-upright. She was still very pale, but her hair that had hung lankly around her face for the last few days when she had been sleeping and Tom had come to visit her was now falling in glossy locks to her waist. Her green eyes were alert and she had even regained colour in her cheeks. Tom wondered if she knew how perfect she was to him as he gazed at her from his position on a chair next to her bed.

"Mister Riddle." His attention was brought back to the Professors when Dippet spoke. Tom gazed at the old man, feeling a twinge of annoyance. The Headmaster had a confused way of talking, meandering without any clear aim. Tom had never enjoyed listening to him. He thought him tedious.

"Where exactly did you find Miss McGonagall?"

"Outside," Tom told him doggedly.

"Could you specify that?" Dumbledore. Ah, how much he despised him, a feeling he knew was duly reciprocated.

"Near the Forbidden Forest. "Minerva had spoken up. Tom tried to resist the urge to give her an annoyed glare. They'd be in trouble now, for sure.

"What were you doing there?" Dippet's voice was uncommonly sharp. "Surely, as a Prefect, Miss McGonagall, you know that pupils are forbidden to go there." He gazed at Tom, who gazed back steadily. "What about you, Mister Riddle?"

Dumbledore interfered. "Ah, Armando," he said with a slight smile, "I am afraid Miss McGonagall was near the Forbidden Forest because of me." Tom quickly looked at Minerva and saw that she was looking as confused as he felt. The teachers, he noticed, were all looking at Dumbledore with rapt attention.

Dumbledore though merely said: "We'll have to talk later about it, Armando."  
"Of course," Dippet acknowledged and Tom once again marvelled how much power the Professor seemed to have over Dippet. But why? And how had he come to have that power? Was it simply because of Dumbledore's abilities that Dippet was in awe of? Tom decided he'd have to find out more.

"What about you, Mister Riddle?" Dumbledore suddenly asked sharply and Tom was abruptly brought back to the present. Tom had known that this moment had come and he had already devised a strategy- this time it was telling the truth.

"I am sure Tom here-, "Slughorn started congenially, but was cut off by Dumbledore: "Please, Horace, I would appreciate Mister Riddle telling us about it himself."

"My pet snake," Tom said, lowering his eyes in false shame. "She was hungry. I had forgotten to let her hunt during the day so I-"

"You snuck out during the night, I see," Dumbledore interrupted. Tom felt his anger rise. What right did Dumbledore have to interrupt him, to treat him so disrespectfully! He wasn't mollified, when the old fool gave a smile that was probably supposed to be conspiratorial: "Well, Tom, I suggest taking care of your snake's needs in a timely manner next time. Seeing that you saved Miss McGonagall here, I suggest Professor Slughorn will see to it that your punishment is a minor one."

Tom gave him a false smile back. "Thank you, sir." He very nearly groaned though at the thought of Slughorn's punishment, it would probably include half an hour of animated conversation wherein the Professor complimented his own and Tom's achievements. But it did help that he was Slughorn's model student and he knew it, giving Slughorn a polite smile as well. Slughorn smiled back widely and Tom suppressed a shudder. Goodness gracious.

"Well, to conclude this," Dumbledore said, "don't go out in the forest alone anymore, both of you. The wolves are not the only dangerous animals there," he added, lowering his eyes behind the half-moon glasses in warning as he referred to the animal that had attacked Minerva.

"Yes, sir," they both muttered contritely.

Nagini chose that moment to peek out of Tom's robes and Dippet reared back, while Madame Yuhe approached with great interest. Dumbledore didn't react at all and neither did Slughorn or Minerva, the latter because she had been introduced to Nagini already years ago. Tom suppressed another sigh.

"May I see your snake?" the Mediwitch asked vigorously. "It's a beautiful exemplar of a python."

"I'll bite her if she comes too close," Nagini hissed viciously. Tom held her tightly, feeling her struggles. Oh, he'd get hell for that later for sure.

"I am sorry, Madame, I don't feel that this is a good idea," he said politely. "She is very shy."

"Shy?" Nagini raged. "I'll give you shy!"

Dumbledore was giving one of his damned twinkling-eyes-smiles and Tom was seething. How dare he laugh at Nagini. He tightened his hold on the snake. Nagini was protesting and he ignored her.

"Well, I daresay this was all," Dumbledore announced finally. "Shall we go? A good day to you, Mister Riddle, Miss McGonagall."

Tom didn't acknowledge him; he could feel the black rage simmering in the pit of his stomach.

* * *

When the teachers were gone and Madam Yuhe had disappeared in her office, Tom turned to Minerva. She seemed tired.

"You should rest," he advised.

Minerva's eyes flashed fire. "You shouldn't tell me what to do."

Ah, he had missed her spirit. He truly had. "I am not."

"This changes nothing," Minerva mumbled finally, "but thank you for saving me."  
Tom looked at her, willing none of the stormy emotions he felt to show on his face. "You are welcome."

The next words were very hard and he had to work around his own pride that nearly made him choke. "I-I apologised to Jonathan. He is back to normal now. And- and I am- well, sorry." He refused to look at her. His own words seemed to mock him.

"Oh Tom," Minerva whispered. As he looked at her he saw that there were unshed tears shining in her eyes. "You did this for me?"

Tom scowled. He didn't want to admit another weakness.

Minerva smiled a little knowing smile which made Tom scowl some more. How he hated his dependency on her, but he could not let go of her either.

"Thank you," she said finally simply.

Eventually it became too hard to keep up the act, even for Tom, the master of pretences. "You scared me," he confessed and he allowed his head to sink on the stark white sheets of her bed. "Please don't do whatever you did to end up here again. I don't even want to know."

_He'd find out anyway._

"Please just don't do it again," he muttered into the crinkly material of the sheets.

Her hand combed through his thick hair and he allowed himself to enjoy it for a while. Her touch was gentle and reassuring in a way, making him sleepy. Through the slight doze he sank into, he heard her voice only distantly: "I won't, I promise." Then she added even quieter: "We haven't been talking for a long while, haven't we? Thank you for rescuing me. You, too, Nagini." This time, her thanks sounded genuine.

Nagini hissed in approval and Tom didn't lift his head as he replied into the mattress, his voice slightly muffled: "We haven't been talking, Minerva, but I can't fault you for it."

"How have things been in London?"

Tom suppressed an involuntary shudder. Burning houses momentarily flashed past his eyes.

"As you know, I haven't been back there ever since you took me to your house in November. But it's been bad. The attacks have started to become less frequent in the last weeks though, so they hope they'll stop." He pressed his face in the bed sheets, remembering with aching clarity the small girl's face he'd seen, her small body crushed by heaps of burning rubble. How cruel humans could be. And how his own helplessness had nearly suffocated him. He would never be as vulnerable as that again.

"I am so sorry, Tom," Minerva told him softly, her voice subdued, probably because she remembered that nightmarish 29th of December the year before. "But I promise you, nothing like last night will happen again. I was just out for a walk, you know. It was foolish but I couldn't sleep and I was upset…because of the whole affair between you and me…and also because of my family, but it doesn't matter now."

Ah, Minerva, how well you can lie, Tom thought sleepily. Aren't we both fabulous liars? But he had her back and that was all that counted now.

* * *

**Professor Dumbledore's Office, Early July 1941**

"I thought we established a basis of trust between us Miss McGonagall."

Minerva gasped at the Professor's harsh words. Nervously she raised her eyes to his and winced at the burning disappointment clearly written on Professor Dumbledore's wise face.

"I do trust you, Professor," she replied hastily, her cheeks burning, unsure about what he expected of her.

"Then why did you lie to me?" He was frowning, an uncommon occurrence for all his usual good cheer, which served as a mask as well. Minerva was thoroughly aware of this but he rarely let it drop in front of his students. He had never been as forward and nearly accusing to her as on this day.

"Please, take a seat," the Professor added shortly. "Your recovery is going well, I trust?"

"It is," Minerva replied tentatively, "thank you for asking, sir."

Dumbledore sat down opposite of her, his blue eyes serious. "I am sorry for having been so harsh to you, Miss McGonagall, but I'd like to ask you to confirm a theory of mine."

"Confirm" didn't sound too good, Minerva thought. It implied an honest answer. Suddenly she was disgusted with herself. What was she doing? This was Professor Dumbledore, her favourite professor, her mentor, her idol. Surely she could trust him? Her thoughts had become so oddly Slytherin-like in the last months, hadn't they? The thought made her quiver and bite her lip so hard that she could taste blood.

"Of course, sir."

"You did more than simply read that book on Animagi I gave you, didn't you?"

Minerva felt oddly conflicted, but finally she gave herself a push. She could do this and as such, she raised her head and stammered out a shaky "Yes".

Curiously enough, the Professor folded his hands over his long beard, leaned back in his chair and smiled at her. Minerva stared at him and she was sure her bewilderment and apprehension were now clearly visible on her face.

"I doubted that you would go in the Forbidden Forest all by yourself, Miss McGonagall, moreover in the middle of the night. So it left me with the conclusion that you had to be undisturbed, maybe in order to try something. This wolf, although it was a magical one and not a common one, would probably never dream of attacking a human when it's on its own. Wolves tend to hunt in packs. So the only logical conclusion of all this would be that you did indeed succeed at becoming an Animagus."

Minerva could only stare at him. "You knew?" she asked finally weakly.

"Oh, I hoped you would manage to become an Animagus."

"In order to spy on Tom," Minerva finished for him and she didn't even try to conceal her anger now.

"We've talked about this before, Miss McGonagall," the Professor said finally. "I am concerned for Mister Riddle. I don't wish to put him under investigation, but I know a lot of what goes on in this castle and I know that Mister Riddle's life has been a quite hard one for someone so young. As his friend, Miss McGonagall- Minerva-, "she started a little at this quite personal usage of her name –

"I would only like you to look out for him. He has a lot of potential and please don't think I am either his or your enemy. I would only like seeing you two starting out on the right path, because you are both some of the most promising students this school has seen for a long time."

Minerva couldn't reply for a long moment. It was certainly a lot to take in. Quietly and quite subdued she finally replied: "Do you really think Tom has evil intentions or dabbles in the Dark Arts?"

Dumbledore regarded her for a long moment. He seemed very sad and also rather resigned. "I happen to know a bit of Mister Riddle's living conditions as I am sure you do, too. I don't think he has evil intentions. All I see, to be completely honest with you, Minerva, because I trust you- all I see is a very confused and bitter boy, who has been hurt too often in his life, who has a brilliant mind but who could easily end up on a wrong path."

Minerva sighed heavily. "I will look out for him, sir, I promise."

"That's all I could have asked of you," Dumbledore answered and the smile was back. "In the meantime I suggest we keep your successful Animagus transformation a secret between the two us. I certainly told a wild enough tale about your being in the Forbidden Forest to the Headmaster to warrant it." His eyes were twinkling and soon enough Minerva was chuckling along with him.

"So tell me, out of curiosity," Dumbledore added, his eyes still alit with mirth, "What form does your animagus take?"

"A tabby cat, sir," Minerva replied earnestly.

"A tabby cat," Dumbledore mused, "did you know that cats were revered and worshipped as goddesses in Ancient Egypt? It's quite a fascinating thing actually. According to the legends, there were cats who could transform to humans. Maybe they were animagi themselves? It's certainly a very respectable and honourable form of an animagus, Miss McGonagall, and those cats in Ancient Egypt are a very interesting field of study."

"I am sure they are, sir," Minerva replied, smiling at him. The flames were roaring in Dumbledore's fireplace and the red and golden tones his office was decorated in, made her think of Gryffindor Tower and of a place where she could feel at home. The feelings of tenseness and apprehension she had had before were gone now, but they were not forgotten. In the back of her mind, they kept nagging at her, reminding her of long cold corridors and a distinct feeling of imminent bale.

* * *

**Quidditch Pitch, Mid-July 1941**

"Gryffindor! Gryffindor! Gryffindor!" The red-golden mass of pupils screamed, but their screams were countered in an equally loud volume with "Slytherin! Slytherin! Slytherin!" shouts from the crowd of green and silver-clad Slytherins situated on the stands opposite.

The Gryffindor seeker suddenly started out in a neck-breaking dive, a mere blur of gold and scarlet, and the cheers got louder as the crowd realised the significance of it. The Slytherin Seeker had realised it too and so he followed the Gryffindor Seeker and- there was a face in front of her binoculars and a voice in her ear: "Minerva."

Annoyed, she lowered the binoculars and saw Tom, standing right next to her, face set in a bored look. Still, his appearance delighted her and caused her to feel a slight pang of guilt. Ever since she had had that scary encounter with the wolf in the forest- she still didn't know how she had escaped, the only thing she remembered running and then a lot of darkness- and ever since he had apologised to Jonathan Davies, she couldn't help that feel that her worries about what he got up to otherwise were unfounded. But then she remembered her conversations with Dumbledore and the spider incident and the feelings were back tenfold. Besides, could she be sure that the apology regarding Davies had been a sincere one? So many questions and so few answers.

"Tom," she eventually acknowledged. "Are you sure you shouldn't be over there?" She pointed over to the Slytherins.

"No," Tom drawled, "I came to look for you and unless something has fundamentally changed I would expect you to be here."

A few of her classmates turned at the sound of Tom's voice. "A bloody Slytherin," Justin Miller, whose superiority complex hadn't changed much in the last three and a half years, hissed. "Yeah," Andrew McFadden chimed in, "what are you doing here?"

Tom raised a cool eyebrow and turned to Minerva, completely ignoring the two. "So, are you coming with me?"

"What, now?" she asked at the same time as Justin, who was outraged at having been ignored by Tom, said in a louder volume: "Didn't you understand us? Get lost before we show you what Gryffindor loyalty really means!" Turning to Minerva, he added a nasty "And why are you spending time with those Slytherin bastards? Aren't we good enough for Her Royal Highness anymore?"

Tom had remained absolutely calm, but as Justin started to insult Minerva, his eyes flashed dangerously.

Before Justin could have even thought of reacting, a wand was placed at his throat: "I am warning you, Miller," Tom hissed lowly, "to keep your opinions to yourself if you value being able to voice them."

Justin stumbled back a few steps, his face underneath the freckles going very pale.

"I have met a few bullies in my life," Tom continued sweetly, "and so far they have all regretted the encounter. Would you like me to add your name to the list?" The last question had been asked in a very casual manner, as if Tom was inquiring whether the physician appointment would be better adjourned to next week. Justin went from pale to a red resembling the colour of his hair and again to pale in a matter of seconds. "No," he stuttered.

"Good," Tom said and offered his arm to Minerva, "shall we go, Minerva?"

Minerva didn't take his arm, but she stepped past him and went quickly down the stairs to reach the exits. Behind her, she could hear a low hiss of Andrew: "God, I swear that bloke's a nutter."  
Tom followed behind Minerva, giving no sign that he'd heard Andrew or that he was offended at Minerva's refusal of taking his arm.

Outside, Minerva stopped and took a deep breath. It was a curious thing how Tom could affect her so much, have her change from being delighted at his appearance to being furious at him. "I am perfectly capable of standing up for myself," she said through clenched teeth.

"Are you?" Tom challenged.

"Please," she spat, "only because you saved me doesn't mean that I am your personal damsel in distress!"

"No," Tom protested, "I do know that. I've seen you stand up to that prat Miller enough times to know that you are. Every single inhabitant in this castle quivers before the fearsome prefect Minerva! Oh god, the fearsome prefect Minerva is coming around the corner, everyone, quickly, find a place to hide. No, it doesn't matter a thing that it's a drawer you have to squeeze yourself in, mate, because it's really high time to disappear!"

He proclaimed everything very dramatically, yet so earnestly and his London accent that had become a bit stronger throughout the whole thing made the whole speech sound so endearing to Minerva's ears that she couldn't help herself; she burst out laughing.

"You, Tom," she gasped, "are impossible."

He gave her a flat look, but then a triumphant smile crossed his face and Minerva knew why; he had achieved a certain victory over her, hadn't he?

She refused to acknowledge it; sometimes it all seemed to be too much of a game to him.

"You needn't have been so hard on him though," was all that she said, amusement slowly dying down as she remembered the dangerous look flashing in his eyes.

"Oh come on," Tom was still in good spirits. "You have to admit, it was pretty entertaining to watch him turn the same colour as his hair. Plus, don't tell me you would have liked to watch that game to the very end."

"As a matter of fact," Minerva protested, "I would have liked to."

"Why?" Tom asked, sounding disgusted. "Those Quidditch games remind me of the soccer games held in London from time to time. Just another form of mass mobilisation, where the individuals are subject to a form of mind manipulation, that makes the lesser-minded among them do just about anything for the association they are members of. In a way, it's quite astonishing to see how something mundane as soccer can make rationally-minded humans end up as enemies. But then again, I suppose, human beings need a form of enemies, don't they? Someone they can rage against, someone who they can blame their poor living conditions on. Sports are just another form of war, if carried out with other means."

"Aren't you taking this metaphor a little far?" Minerva asked incredulously, raising a thin eyebrow.

Tom smiled. "Think about it and you'll notice I'm right."

Minerva snorted. "Because you are always right."

"Exactly." Tom sounded bored.

"Well, I beg to differ, Tom," Minerva inserted. "I do agree with your assessment in parts. But I firmly believe that you can enjoy sports and you don't necessarily end up viewing the other team as enemy."

"Oh," Tom smiled, showing white teeth, taking her arm and starting to lead her towards the Hogwarts Grounds, "really? You are a great friend of Slytherins then?"

"No," Minerva sighed. Discussing with Tom was always a quite strenuous affair. "But you have to admit that it is a pretty mutual form of dislike."

"I guess so," Tom admitted, his eyes dancing with mirth, "but wouldn't you also agree, that Miller and McFadden are representatives of the exact group of people I've just described to you before? They are like sheep and they always need a clear distinction between enemy and friend. But you are definitely not like them, Minerva. You can differentiate. You know that there is black and there is white, but you are also aware of the area of grey in between. That's what I like about you."

His lips were suddenly close to her ear and his hot breath tickled her neck. Minerva shivered at his proximity. Small tingles raced down her spine and she closed her eyes against the glare of the summer sun and her own unsteadiness. Tom smiled slowly and pressed his lips against her neck.

"Come on," he murmured, "let's sit down for a while."

Minerva shook off his spell and followed him, sitting down next to him in the high grass of the meadow a few metres away from the dark water of the lake lying silent in the midday sun. From a distance, they could hear the cheers and screams from the Quidditch pitch. "Gryffindor won!" it resounded and Minerva smiled happily. Tom seemed indifferent. For a while they were both silent, each lost in their own thoughts, then Minerva withdrew a book from her bag, remembering her Charms essay for the next day with a pang of guilt.

"I am glad that the OWLs are over," Tom stated.

She shot him a sideways look through a few bangs of dark hair that obstructed her sight. "Why?"

"Well," Tom pointed out, reclining and stretching his long legs out, "you were insufferable the months before you took them. When are you due to get the results? Next week?"

"Yes," Minerva replied tightly, refraining from pointing out that they had barely spoken the months before the OWLs, a feeling of anxiety unfurling in her gut when she thought of the OWL results- the whole Animagus business and her injury had made her take the OWL exams in a nearly absent-minded manner last week. She only hoped that it wasn't visible at the results.

"Oh stop fussing," Tom complained. "I am sure you'll do well." He had picked up a few stones and was flinging them into the lake, his robe lying in a dark puddle in the grass behind him. He had rolled up the sleeves of his white button-down shirt and was now concentrating on throwing the flattish stones in the exactly right angle so they would end up skipping over the water.

Minerva glanced at him. A slight breeze had come up and offset his aim. Tom swore quietly, when one of his stones plummeted in the water. She snorted. "You really take this seriously, don't you?"

"The angle needs to be about twenty degrees," he replied, all sincerity, tongue sticking out between his teeth. "It's very hard to approximate it with this damnable wind coming up. The water isn't calm anymore."  
Minerva laughed at him, but was completely ignored.

"You know," Tom said suddenly, still concentrating on his stones, "the reason I wanted to talk to you was because of Professor Slughorn." Minerva furrowed her brow. "Professor Slughorn?"

"Yes," Tom answered with a quiet sigh. A crease had appeared between his eyebrows. "He invited me to join his so-called _club _today, telling me I was a smart one." He shot a quick sideways look at her, stating dryly, "I already knew that of course, I wouldn't have needed him telling me."

"You are not sure of yourself at all, are you, Tom?" Minerva asked rhetorically, but was ignored when Tom went on smoothly, "Well, and I need a partner for the next party he arranges. So I would like to ask you to come along."

Minerva smiled, enjoying the easy banter. "Sorry to disappoint you, Tom."

His head snapped around to her, disbelief written clearly on his face. Minerva enjoyed it for a few seconds, then said: "I might have got an invitation to the party myself yesterday. So in turn I would like to ask _you _to accompany me, seeing that I was invited a day earlier."

Tom looked astonished for a few seconds more, then he broke out into a wide carefree grin. "Well then, my Lady…I would like to say yes." Quietly, he added: "You bested me, Minerva. But don't think you can claim the next victory, too."

"Thank you, sir," Minerva mock-curtsied and added a mischievous: "I wouldn't even dream of it."

Tom scoffed at her sarcasm, but the mirth remained in his eyes. He was really in a good mood on this day, Minerva thought, and wondered whether it was something else that had happened…something to do with whatever he got up to. No, she wouldn't think of that now and she shoved the dark thoughts away, concentrating again on her Charms book.

* * *

A few minutes later she was rudely interrupted. A head had appeared in her line of sight, obstructing the sight on the book lying on her lap.

"You do realise that I am not your pillow," Minerva stated in a half-amused, half-irritated manner when Tom uncoordinatedly attempted to place his head in her lap, but ended up with his face pressed into her book about Advanced Charms.

"Mrgh," Tom told her, accomplishing the impossible by making that monosyllabic sound actually dignified. Then he removed the book from her lap only to settle down again. "Better. Be a good pillow and be quiet. On second thought, you could give me a head massage."

"Presumptuous, aren't we?" Minerva grumbled, but when Tom blinked innocently up at her with those wide blue eyes of his, Minerva had no other choice but to comply. When she began to run her fingers through his raven locks, Tom yawned and slurred something about being "reaaaally tired", then closed his eyes.

Minerva blinked against the hot glare of the midday sun, the heat making her drowsy, yet she did not stop her ministrations. There was a kind of complacent silence hanging over the Hogwarts Grounds on this midsummer day, only interrupted by the quiet sounds of the lake's water gently lapping against the shore, some ducks squawking quizzically…After long silent thought about everything and nothing at once- but oh, it was hard to think clearly on such a warm, lazy day- Minerva dropped her gaze to look again at Tom.

He was breathing deeply and regularly and his head had become quite heavy in her lap. Tom Riddle had well and truly fallen asleep in her presence. Minerva marvelled at the fact that he had let go of his iron control like that. Intrigued she looked down at him.

Tom's hair had a certain reddish tint in the sun and the black strands gleamed like some kind of expensive silk. There were a few pale freckles scattered over his nose and Minerva thought that they were so pale that you could only see them up this close. Tom's long eyelashes rested on his pale cheeks, hiding the expressive eyes from view- eyes that could transform from being as cold and distant as a lake in winter to the stormy and intense scenery of the sea in the throes of an autumn storm.

He had high cheekbones and a finely-structured face, thin lips and an elegantly-chiselled nose. His slender black eyebrows that could convey his dry wit so well were still now. Minerva pressed a gentle kiss to his forehead. Tom stirred, but he did not wake.

He was so trusting in his sleep, lying there sun-warmed and still in her lap that Minerva felt an odd sort of realisation rise up within her. She had never experienced love before, but this might just be it. It was an intense feeling that washed all rational thought away as she gazed down at Tom. She wanted to hold him, cherish him and be there for him at all times. Wasn't this love? It had to be.

Elated and apprehensive at the same time Minerva continued to gaze down at him as she finally admitted to herself what she knew was true- she, Minerva McGonagall was irrevocably and utterly in love with one Tom Riddle.

* * *

_tbc :) _


	13. 1941 Part III

_Hi everyone! I am in the middle of the exams phase and I should be learning instead of updating, but as usual inspiration struck when I least needed it. Anyway, I hope you like this update- please, review! That would make my day. _

_Honestly, university has been much like a nightmare the last few weeks, so your reviews really mean the world to me!__ Please please tell me what you think!_

_Thank you so much for your reviews for the last chapter, **ElOsoDelNieve, yaY** and **PoisonBerrie!**_

_I really got to return to my notes now- enjoy :)_

_Sachita_

* * *

**Chapter Twelve  
**

**Hogwarts, July 20****th****, 1941**

"How do I look?" Minerva asked nervously, twirling in front of the mirror in her long skirts. Normally she wasn't prone to vanity, but the last event of this magnitude she had taken part in had been the Christmas Soiree one and a half years ago. She remembered the ungainly part she had played that evening well. It was nothing she wished a repeat of, especially not at the party of Professor Slughorn.

Poppy gave her an appraising look. "You look marvellous, Min. We really picked a nice dress for you." Minerva allowed herself a wan little smile, remembering the previous Hogsmeade weekend. She was not one for buying dresses and had been glad to have Poppy along; otherwise she might have gone for a simplistic black dress. This one was red instead, not a garish red or a red that would have made her seem desperate for attention, but a dark shade of red that complemented her dark hair and the lipstick she had put on. Poppy tugged critically at her hairdo. "Turn around."

Minerva did as she had asked, her wide skirt swinging in soft circles. Poppy adjusted the golden butterfly clip that held Minerva's skilfully pinned-up locks in place. Skilfully pinned-up by Poppy of course; the only hairdo that Minerva could do was the simple yet stern bun she normally wore.

"So," Poppy told her eventually confidently, her tongue sticking out of her mouth in concentration. "You are ready."

Poppy stepped back and allowed Minerva a last look at herself in the mirror. Tentatively she tried out a few steps in the shoes- they had higher heels than what she was used to. The fabric of the dress swished around her knees as she turned. "Let's do this," she finally told Poppy, sounding braver than she really felt.

Tom was waiting for her at the entrance to the Gryffindor Common Room. With his dark hair neatly parted at the side, the simple yet clean-pressed dress robes and the silver-and-green tie he looked every inch the English gentleman.

When he caught sight of her, his eyes widened and Minerva allowed a small smile to play upon her lips, even as she self-consciously adjusted her skirt.

"You should have told me earlier that I should have brought a walking stick along to fend off the attackers," he said finally. Mirth was dancing in his eyes but there was also genuine awe in them. Minerva blushed, feeling like the epitome of a silly schoolgirl that flushes at the smallest compliment that is being paid to her. Tom's look transformed to seriousness. "You are beautiful," he said, sounding very awkward out of the sudden. Minerva looked at him and saw that a flush was creeping out from underneath his shirt collar.

He cleared his throat: "Shall we go?"

Minerva took his arm and allowed him to lead her along the corridor. In an attempt to break the flustered atmosphere, she commented lightly: "But you'd need a silver-coated walking stick, like those people in Hyde Park."

Tom laughed. "Right," he snorted and swung his free arm in wide circles, proclaiming: "All ye people, aside! Here comes Lord Walking Stick and his fair Lady!"

Minerva snorted. "You are unbelievable."

Tom's reply was tinged with wickedness: "I know."

* * *

Slughorn, when he caught sight of them, seemed absolutely delighted. "Ah, Miss McGonagall, Mister Riddle! How splendid of you to join us!"

The gathered people stilled in their conversations. A middle-aged man eyed Minerva with undisguised admiration. She tightened her grip on Tom's arm unconsciously, uncomfortable with all the attention.

"May I introduce Mister Riddle and Miss McGonagall, two of my most talented students!" Slughorn boomed. "Miss McGonagall here is already a Prefect and I daresay Mister Riddle will be one next term, too!" His pale eyes shone with joy and satisfaction and he dishevelled Tom's hair with a jovial air. Tom grimaced discreetly and in turn tensed next to Minerva, who felt an unexpected surge of empathy with him. She knew how much he hated being touched by others. Personally she thought it might have something to do with his time at the Muggle Orphanage. Muggles still used whips after all- or rulers, she'd been told- to punish the Muggle children in school.

"Mister Riddle," Slughorn blundered on, "had a very hard life already. He was brought up in a Muggle orphanage, yet he stands among us now. His talent is extraordinary indeed!"

Tom went as stiff as a board next to Minerva. A few snickers arose from the gathered group of people. "Well, sir, I happen to have the pleasure to reside in the same area where Acrybius Velnar was brought up," he remarked coolly, but perfectly polite. The faces of the people who had snickered before fell silent- Sir Acrybius Velnar was a very high-ranking member of the Wizengamot and no-one dared to snicker at him. Minerva was secretly proud of Tom's deviousness.

"Andrew Martins, I work at the Ministry of Magic," the middle-aged man, who had stared at Minerva when they had come in, was the first to introduce himself, while most of the other people picked up their conversations again. "How do you do, Mister Martins," Tom said politely with all the arrogance of a nobleman. No one would have guessed from his manner of talking that he came from a poor East End Orphanage, in fact he could have been confused with a Malfoy had he only looked like a pale-haired ghost. Minerva never let go of his arm.

"You are certainly a remarkable young man, considering your origins," the man continued in a falsely polite tone. Tom's arm began to tremble, a sure sign of his anger, but no one would have guessed that he was even mildly irritated from a look at his face because he remained perfectly composed.

"My upbringing steeled me for the world's hardships, sir," Tom merely replied. Only Minerva knew that he was laughing at both the man and at himself because hardships were in this case Tom having to listen to brainless comments such as this one, while being unable to do anything against it made him laugh at himself. The fact that he was able to laugh at himself was a quality of Tom's that she valued very highly.

"Indeed, indeed," Mister Martins commented distractedly, completely missing the hidden irony. He went on to Minerva, staring at her with a hooded look from underneath his massive eyebrows.

"What a lovely young Lady. Are you related to Gavyn McGonagall, the Auror?"

"He is my father," Minerva answered stiffly.

"Well, he certainly has a beautiful daughter," Mister Martins mused and the lewd look had returned.

"If you'd excuse us, sir," Tom cut in coolly, "Professor Slughorn wanted a word with us."

"Of course," Mister Martins replied. "I am looking forward to seeing you again, Miss."

Minerva chose not to reply, but she shuddered discreetly as Tom led her away, a possessive hand on the small of her back. For once his possessiveness did not disturb her, instead she felt a whole lot more safer with him there to protect her from Mister Martins' disturbing looks.

"What a bloody git," Tom whispered scathingly.

"Don't get worked up about it, Tom," Minerva advised in a low voice. "Let's go and see if there are any decent people in here."

There were decent people- Minerva was delighted to meet Amy O'Leary, who had in her heyday been the British Isles' first female Quidditch player- she was in her forties and had been at Hogwarts in the 1920s- a few men and women working for the Ministry of Magic and finally Gitta Scraviani, a woman in her late thirties with warm brown eyes and beautiful mahogany-coloured hair.

"I am from Italy," she said and laughed, "but the developments at home made it necessary for my family to relocate to Britain."

Intrigued, Minerva asked her which developments that had been and if they coincided with the reign of Mussolini, while Tom slipped his arm from hers and excused himself. A sideways glance revealed that Tom was off to Abraxas Malfoy, who was standing a little at the side with his girlfriend, Lucille Mary Yaxley, called "Lou Lou" by her friends- which Minerva was definitely not. Lucille was rather convinced of herself and already held herself with the air of a Malfoy. Minerva was certainly not going to mingle with such a person.

"-when Mussolini came to power in Italy," Gitta Scraviani explained and Minerva shifted her focus back to what the Italian witch was saying, "a group of radically-minded wizards also came to power within the Italian Ministry of Magic. Times were dark and Muggle-born magic folk such as my family and me had to flee the country." Her dark eyes sparkled with outrage. "I am writing a book at the moment, which postulates that it is no coincidence that magical and Muggle radicalism happen at the same time."

"I am sorry you had to leave your country," Minerva told her sincerely.

Gitta laughed gently, swirling the wine in her glass. "Don't be. I have accustomed myself quite well to life here. Well, except for the food." She grimaced very expressively. Minerva grinned.

"It's not all that bad," she told Gitta, distracted because she had been keeping an eye on Tom the entire time while she had been talking to Gitta. He was whispering furtively with Malfoy. What on earth was he up to? She did not like this one bit.

Gitta followed her eyes and smiled motherly. "You like him very much, don't you?"

Minerva swung her eyes back to Gitta, startled at this deduction by a near-stranger.

"Oh, sweetheart, it's not that difficult to see," Gitta told her gently. "But be careful. There is something dark about him. In the end it's always us women who get hurt."  
"Why are you telling me this?" Minerva asked slowly.

Gitta shrugged. "I like you. Also, I've known someone who reminds me of your friend once." She did not elaborate further, but her eyes slid away to a distant past and Minerva knew that Gitta was not really in this room with the sumptuous chandeliers and mountains of food anymore, but in a completely different place and time.

"I am sorry," Gitta said suddenly, when her eyes regained her focus. "It's not that I mean to belittle you. Just- you are a smart and kind-hearted girl. Finding the right path is not always easy- but be careful- listen to your heart, but know that your heart can also deceive you."

With these mysterious words she nodded at Minerva and went away in a rustle of blue silk. Minerva shook her head at the rather abrupt departure and was only brought out of her reverie when Tom arrived, Malfoy and entourage with him. She groaned privately.

"McGonagall," Malfoy acknowledged. "Malfoy," Minerva said icily. Lucinda only narrowed her eyes wordlessly. She was clad in a golden dress that fit maybe a little too snugly and had her light brown hair gathered in an enormous pile of locks on her head. Minerva raised a wry eyebrow at her, to which Lucinda only huffed.

Tom smirked thinly. "As much as I like seeing well-meant rivalry among my peers, I enjoy politesse a whole lot more. I am sure your mother taught you well, Lucinda."

Lucinda sneered, but to Minerva's big surprise she said reluctantly: "Hello, Minerva."

Surprised, Minerva returned the greeting neutrally.

"Now, I'd be happy if you two mingled among others and left us alone," Tom announced.

Malfoy nodded obsequiously and took Lucinda's arm. Minerva stared after them as they left and then looked back at Tom.

Narrowing her eyes, she asked: "Is that how you communicate in Slytherin house?"

"You have to show them who holds the reins in his hand," Tom explained softly, raking her eyes across her form. "That Martins did not talk to you again, did he?"

Minerva let the matter rest, Malfoy and Lucinda- she was nearly tempted to think of them as "the Malfoys"- did not interest her, but she filed it away for later thought.

"He did not," she answered eventually. "I had a nice conversation with Gitta."

She looked at the crowd, but there was no sign of her.

"Who?" Tom teased her. "Are you sure you are not imagining things?"

Minerva hit him lightly. "You saw her too!"

"I was so quickly gone, you might as well have been talking to a wooden pole."

"Tom!" Minerva cried again, but he only laughed.

A waltz tune started up. Tom smirked and explained at her questioning look: "It's so positively 1900s of him to listen to music like that. It's modern times ! It's the 1940s, time of jazz and boogie woogie!" At her confused look, Tom merely shook his dark head. "I forgot that you are not as in tune with the Muggle World as I am. Miss Cole forbids us to go there, but I've been out and watched the people in the dance halls."

Minerva still looked confused. Tom just shook his head again and took her hand. "May I ask the Lady for a dance? We can go and have something to eat later."

She allowed him to lead her on the polished dance floor, remembering what mother had taught her- the left foot one step back, the right foot back as well, make a step to the right, put your right foot forward, the left foot as well, a step to the left, repeat…After a while it wasn't even that hard anymore.

Tom, she noted, was a good dancer and it was usually her who stepped on his toes. After the tenth mumbled apology, she asked where he had been taught how to dance so well.

"Miss Cole taught me before I came to Hogwarts, telling me that she would not see the good name of her orphanage sullied by me when I went to a boarding school. As if anyone cared about Wool's Orphanage here!" He laughed.

Minerva put her arms around his neck and swayed with him to the slow tune of the music. She forgot about the people in the room, forgot about Mister Martin's lewd looks, Tom's secret discussions with Malfoy and forgot even about school. There was only Tom and her, ever swaying on to the tune of "An der schönen blauen Donau," that classic Vienesse waltz, on and on, and on, Tom's dark eyes fixed on her face, his hair still slightly mussed – and the room spun still on and on around them, until the only thing left in her peripheral vision were his eyes, his beautiful, fathomless blue eyes.

Tom, Tom, Tom.

Tom…

* * *

**Hogwarts, July 22nd, 1941**

"Were you born this way? Did your mother hate you so much?" a cold voice sneered.

"Leave me alone!" The second voice was younger, childlike even. Its owner sounded tearful.

"Oh, I don't think I will do that, you huge oaf…I am so sorry." False empathy now laced the words of the first voice.

"I will tell someone!" Defiance now in the second voice.

"Pray who will you tell?" The first voice asked in an amused manner. "The prefects? Well, how about I tell them that you are monumentally fond of sneaking out at night to visit the monsters in the Forbidden Forest!"

"They are not monsters!"

Minerva decided that she had heard enough. She stepped past the huge entrance gates she had been standing behind and made her way out into the yard with measured steps. It was a cold July day and mists were creeping in through the columned hallways that bordered the yard. Minerva shivered in the cold and adjusted her robes.

The two boys had fallen silent as soon as they became aware of her. One was a gigantic, messy-haired Gryffindor who surprised her with his childlike features considering his size and the second one was a pale Slytherin, who glared at her defiantly, his blond hair slicked back expertly.

"Alright," she said and sighed a little. "No use to deny anything, I've heard it all. Names, please."

"Before you ask for my name," the Slytherin sneered, "you should know that my father's name is a very powerful tool."

"So is mine," Minerva retorted without missing a beat. "I bet his name has even more syllables. People always end up spelling it wrong. That's the power of confusion."

The Gryffindor guffawed, but when Minerva shot him a glare, he fell silent.

"I won't ask you again," Minerva warned.

"Felicius Malfoy, Slytherin Second Year," the blond boy told her, schadenfreude clear in his voice. The Malfoys. Minerva very nearly groaned, thinking of Abraxas, who was a year under her. "Abraxas Malfoy happens to be your brother?"

"My older brother. Why?" Mistrust was in the squirt's eyes.

"No particular reason." She turned to the Gryffindor. "What's your name?"

"You are Minerva McGonagall, the Prefect, aren't you?" Come to think of it, Minerva had seen the boy in the Gryffindor Common Room a few times already. Someone of his size was hard to miss. She sent him a gentler smile, seeing how he was quivering under her stern look. "My name is Rubeus Hagrid, Miss McGonagall, First Year."

"Minerva will quite suffice," she told him shortly. "Anyway, for your aggressive and immature taunts I will deduct fifteen points from Slytherin. As for you, Mister Hagrid, fifteen points from Gryffindor for sneaking out at night."

Hagrid didn't even try to protest, he just hung his head. His eyes were suspiciously bright. Minerva felt bad instantly, but she pushed that feeling away.

Malfoy didn't take it so well. "Wait till my father hears about it," he sneered.

"Felicius!" a voice interrupted. Turning, Minerva became aware of the towering form of Abraxas Malfoy, who looked with his pale hair and skin exactly like an older version of his little brother. "What are you doing?"

"She deducted points from Slytherin! I didn't do anything; I just had a discussion with him!" He pointed to Hagrid. Abraxas seemed to be irritated. He acknowledged Minerva fleetingly, then bent down to his little brother's ear and whispered something, which caused Felicius to stare at Minerva with wide grey eyes.

"What is it?" Minerva asked in irritation.

"I didn't know you are Lo-Ri-Tom's girlfriend. I shall not speak untoward to you again. Please forgive me." Minerva blinked at the speech of the squirt, but when his words had sunk in, her anger mounted all the more. "I should ask you to respect this," and she pointed firmly to her Prefect's badge that gleamed dimly on this grey day, "not the fact that I am Tom Riddle's girlfriend."

She frowned as something else occurred to her. Felicius had meant to call Tom differently, Lo- Lord? When Abraxas spoke again, she shoved the near-slip at the back of her mind and soon forgot about it.

"Of course," Abraxas said smoothly. "Felicius respects that as well. His comments were completely out of line and something like this shall never occur again."

"Well," Minerva pointed out, wondering suddenly how far she could push the two of them, "if he didn't mean it he should apologise to Mr. Hagrid here."

Felicius's young face contorted to a hateful grimace and Minerva found herself lamenting the fact that there seemed to be so much hate in someone so young. Abraxas seemed reluctant as well, but when Felicius looked up to him hopefully, he shook his head and shoved his brother towards Hagrid.

"S-sorry," Felicius finally spat out.

"'S quite alright," Hagrid assured him, even smiling although he had clearly caught the maliciousness in Felicius's apology, as such gaining a few points in Minerva's favour. She was starting to like that boy, even though she'd have to investigate his nightly trips to the Forbidden Forest.

"Come on Felicius," Abraxas said coolly, nodding to Minerva, once again completely ignoring Hagrid and tugging his little brother after him, who didn't even look at them.

"Miss Minerva," Rubeus mumbled suddenly. She looked up to him, feeling a bit disoriented, seeing that he had at least two heads on her.

"Yes?"

"The animals I have been visiting in the Forbidden Forest are no monsters," Hagrid told her tearfully. "They are my only friends."

Minerva sighed. "Yes, Rubeus, but they are dangerous. You shouldn't venture out there alone. What about the children in your year? Are they not friendly to you?"

"Not one," Rubeus told her sadly and the look in his warm brown eyes was heart-breakingly sad. Minerva slipped her hand into his, which easily dwarfed hers.

"Well then I shall be your friend, Rubeus. What do you say?"

"Ooh!" She couldn't suppress a sound of surprise as he lifted her easily up to his level, crushing her to his chest as if she were a doll. "Miss Minerva, that sounds splendid, it does!"

"Can't breathe!" Minerva gasped. "Rubeus, let me down!"

He did so, beaming with all the might of his eleven-year-old self.

Minerva suppressed a smile at his enthusiasm. "Come on, Rubeus," she said, tugging him toward the school building. "How about you tell me a bit about yourself- for instance, what is your favourite subject?"

"Oh that's easy," Rubeus said in delight. "That'd be Care of Magical Creatures…"

* * *

**July 24****th****, 1941**

"Why were you in the Forbidden Forest that day?"

The question came out of the blue, startling Minerva who was sitting at one of the tables in the Library and reading a volume on Advanced Potions.

"Good Merlin, Tom," she gasped, a hand on her poor wildly-beating heart. "You startled me."

Tom looked at her with his head cocked a little sideways. The dark curls were impeccably-kempt and the look in his eyes could only be called mischievous. A wry smile tilted the corner of his mouth.

"So easy to startle, are we?" he drawled, running a finger over her hand that was resting on the book. Minerva shivered at his cool touch.

Tom's smirk widened a little and he sank down opposite of her, pushing his long school uniform sleeves back as he did so. "So I heard you had a run-in with Felicius Malfoy."

Minerva narrowed her green eyes. "Are you spying on me?"

Tom raised an eyebrow, unmoved. "Everyone knew about it at dinnertime," he explained imperturbably. "So no spying was needed. But he won't bother you again, I promise."

"I am perfectly capable of taking care of that myself."  
Tom looked mildly amused. "I know that. But shouldn't you be happy that you have one problem less on your plate? You should be grateful to me."

Minerva chose not to reply. "Go away," she told him. Of course he didn't go away, but stayed where he was, staring at her, which made conscientious studying almost impossible.

"I don't like your hair that way," he remarked in an off-handed manner, motioning to her strict hairdo. Minerva fingered her strict hairdo, secured with countless pins. "A woman mustn't wear her hair down," she told Tom primly. As little as she cared about propriety, there were a few rules of society even she couldn't help but adhere to. Tom scowled.

"Those silly rules," he proclaimed disgustedly. Then, with a wicked smirk, he tugged at one of her pins. Minerva hastily adjusted it again. "I can't run with my hair loose like a madwoman," she scolded. "Would you have me seen as a lady of easy virtue?"

Tom leaned in close and pressed a kiss to her neck. "Never," he whispered. "You would never be seen that way, Minerva, even if you ran with her hair undone and your clothes in a disarray. You are far too good for that and anyone could see that. Anyway, you shouldn't care what people think, least of all those stupid Muggles. You are mine."

"Tom," Minerva protested and pushed him away, oddly disconcerted, as she usually was, when he became that possessive. "I really have to get some work done."

Tom glanced down at the book. "Potions?" he inquired. "You hate potions."

"I know," Minerva sighed and glared at him. "That's why I am trying to improve my grades by learning and not talking to you."

Tom chuckled lowly, a sound from deep in his chest. He leaned back, crossing his long arms in front of the Slytherin crest on his robes. "It was you who blew up Justin Miller's cauldron a few days back. Please tell me, Minerva, how you are ever going to restore the Professor's opinion of you."

Minerva sighed heavily and flopped face-down on the book, the action probably making her look quite comical. "I don't know." Her voice was muffled. It was true; she was bad at Potions and that irked her horribly. Professor Dumbledore had once told her that she shouldn't be too ambitious, but it was a trait Minerva couldn't fight.

"Well, I could help you." Minerva looked up to see Tom smiling superiorly down at her. "You can't be as good as me in every subject anyway," he continued without missing a beat, no arrogance in his voice whatsoever, just conviction. "But I could give you a few pointers. First of all, Minerva, I'd like to know something though- what were you really doing in the Forbidden Forest that day?"

"I already told you," Minerva said warily.

"Please," Tom scoffed. "I am not Dippet."

"No one would think so," Minerva laughed, imagining Tom with a white beard and hair.

"Don't attempt to sidetrack me."

"I am not." Minerva gave a sigh, though she was quivering inside. "Abigail wrote me; and I know you don't like her, but her mother is very ill. That was upsetting to hear. Plus," she gulped once before continuing because she didn't like divulging anything like that to anyone, not even to Tom, but now taking the bull by the horns seemed to be her only alternative, "my mother wrote. She has my entire future planned out for me. When I return home for the holidays, she has a few potential marriage partners she wishes to introduce me to. So I was distressed. And I went outside to forget about it. I was running and crying, not watching where I was going, eventually finding myself in the Forbidden Forest. The wolf got to me when I was on my way back to the castle, but I don't remember anything else."

Tom's face had darkened considerably during her words. "Your mother wants to marry you off?" he asked with badly constrained anger in his voice. "How dare she touch what- I mean how dare she do so without your consent."

Minerva had heard the slip. Tom had wanted to say how dared her mother touch what was his. Momentarily, a tight feeling in her chest made it very hard to breathe. She pasted a smile on, hoping that he wouldn't see through her pretence, even if she felt like a trapped animal.

"That's my mother for you," was all she eventually replied.

Tom's anger had dissipated, but it was still dormant in his eyes. "Thank you for telling me the truth, Minerva. I've got to go and pack my things, but I'll see you on the train tomorrow. Ta-ta for now."

Without another word he was off, leaving Minerva to stare at his back and contemplate his words. Why would he bring up again that he was now convinced that she was telling the truth? The latest version of her reasons for going into the Forbidden Forest that day was not very different from the first one she'd told him. Did he know? She shook her head to herself. He couldn't know. Impossible.

* * *

**Scotland, August 13****th****, 1941**

The rain was coming down in heavy sheets and Mrs Goodie, holding a black monstrous umbrella over her head, looked in her black mourning clothes as gloomy as the weather.

"Poor lass," she said softly, wiping a wrinkled hand over her old face, nodding to Abigail. "Poor lass."

Minerva, who had found shelter from the weather under Mrs Goodie's umbrella as well couldn't help but agree.

If the mourners in their heavy black clothes looked sad in the grey weather, it was Abigail who looked positively tragic.

She watched with a stony face how the casket of her mother was lowered into the ground, listened silently to the words of the priest and stood motionlessly as the village people expressed their condolences. Her face beneath the old-fashioned black bonnet she wore was whiter than Minerva had ever seen it and her mouth was just a thin line in her face.

The auburn hair clashed horribly with her pallor. Abigail's eyes were the only things expressing frailty; they were wide and uncomprehending as she stared at her mother's grave, but her posture was that of an unmoving stone. Minerva longed to comfort her in some way, but she felt insufficient, to say the least.

With uncertain steps, she trudged through the rain-soaked mud that sullied her long dress and sprinkled her heavy boots with dirt. A stiff breeze had sprung up as well, making Minerva shiver, soaked as she was. Michael had come up to his sister, his face, too, grave. He put a hand on Abigail's shoulder, not saying a word, as the villagers slowly disbanded.

Minerva stumbled to a halt, gazing at the siblings. The feeling of uncertainty had returned tenfold.

"Minerva," Michael said softly, acknowledging her with a nod. Abigail only looked at her. A single tear leaked from her eye and ran down her cheek, nearly lost in the heavy rain.

"I am sorry," Minerva mumbled finally, trying to convey her sincerity in those three words. "I am so sorry."

Abigail looked at her steadily. Then, in a voice, much more mature than what Minerva had ever heard on her, she said quietly: "Thank you, Minerva, for your support. There is nothing left to do for you here. Go home."

Minerva felt horrible about being glad that she was offered this way out. No words would come to her as she nodded a shaky thanks and made off through the cemetery, out of the iron gate and up through the rainy Scottish hills to McGonagall Manor.

As she went up the steep hills, she reflected on what happened and bit her lip. Poor Abigail. Her mother had died not long after Minerva had returned from Hogwarts, which had been barely a week ago. Like Abigail had written in the letter, there was no-one to look after the shop now, if Michael got drafted. Minerva bit her lip. Surely the Muggles couldn't be that heartless, could they?

A faint roaring of thunder made her stop mid-stride and push wet bangs of hair out of her eyes. In the distance, a bluish-grey cloud mass told of a thunderstorm brewing. Her heart fell suddenly as realisation hit her. There was a war on. Michael would be drafted. It had nothing to do with being heartless.

* * *

**August 24****th****, 1941**

"Thyme, rosemary…" Minerva listed diligently, trying to remember what Abigail had told her about the flora of Scotland's highland meadows.

For a moment there was only the heavy summer silence and her own sun-warmed smothering sleepiness in the intense smell of the meadow and the buzzing of insects all around her and then Abigail's voice drifted over to her.

"You forgot to mention camomile," she said, sounding preoccupied. "You can even smell it. It's got such an intense smell, so easily recognisable…it mustn't be forgotten." Her voice sounded strangely small and got quieter with each word.

Minerva twisted to look at Abigail's reddish head of hair, just half an arm's length next to her on the meadow, but Abigail's face was turned away from her. Minerva watched how her friend's long pale fingers played with a long blade of grass, twisting it in all directions and all kinds of shapes.

"What's wrong, Abby?" she asked eventually carefully.

For a moment, the overwhelming summer silence returned, then Abigail mumbled softly, still playing with the grass blade: "He is going away."

"Who, Abby, who?"

"Michael." Abigail laughed bitterly. "Finally got his recruitment papers, we kept waiting for them to come. And oh, how official it all sounds. A duty that he's got to fulfil the papers told us. It's for the country's good."

"Oh Abby," Minerva said and she choked on her words. Michael, gentle debonair Michael with the laughing brown eyes, Michael whom she had had a crush on for a while, Abby's big brother who was now going away to war. Things hadn't been right between her and Michael ever since Tom's visit earlier that year but she had come to care a great deal for him nonetheless.

Abigail didn't even seem to hear Minerva's words. Her fingers were now trembling and closing around the grass blade, squashing it in her fist.

"They say it's for the greater cause, but they've always said that, haven't they? We've got to defend ourselves. Now it's Germany that is attacking but it might as well be any other country for the result is always the same. In the end it's just people like us who end up being like this grass blade: all bent out of shape and twisted…and wrong. And no one cares for us then."

Minerva listened in silence. It was as if a heavy cloud had descended on them. Abigail's words had a chilling effect. Normally her friend wasn't inclined to philosophical discourses, but looking at the mangled blade of grass in Abigail's pale fist Minerva felt that her words were right.

But how was she to comfort her friend? Could she even comfort her? Words would not come to her because the matter was too overwhelming, too awful and everything that she might have offered as a reassurance got stuck in her throat.

Helplessly, she said finally before the silence could become too overbearing: "Abby, you've always got me, haven't you?"

Abigail still didn't look at her but she softly shook her head, choking out a "No."

Then she turned a tear-stained face to Minerva.

"You won't be there. We had to close the shop down. Ever since Ma died, we've barely been able to scrape by. Michael had to give up on his job in town even before she died and even so, with him helping me with the shop we were always at the brink of existence. Now he has to leave to go to war. I can't run the shop by myself. There is a farmer located near Shepherd's Hill, who I've been promised to."

"Marry?" Minerva gasped. "But you are far too young to marry!"

"I am sixteen," Abigail said stoically and wiped her tears away, "and he is a good match. The minister agreed."

"The minister agreed!" Minerva gasped. "So that is what they teach you in the service, is it?"

Abigail gave her a hard look. "Minerva, I don't ask why you are not in the service on Sundays. I don't ask what you get up to at your boarding school. So don't you dare judge me. There is no way out and even though this path may be a hard one, it is the only I can see. So don't you dare."

After a long pause Minerva replied and her heart was heavy. "There is nothing I can say, is there?"

There isn't," Abigail simply answered and she turned away, leaving Minerva to stare at her back and watch how the wind played with her friend's auburn hair. Then, with a sinking feeling she understood. Abigail was sitting there next to her in the meadow, but then again she was not. She was already far far away.

And there was nothing Minerva could do.

A letter from Tom was waiting for her on a stormy, cold August day when she returned to the Manor from a visit to Abigail, who was getting ready to leave the village. She was in a dreadful mood but it made her happy to see that Caelus had arrived as well, as sopping wet as she was.

"Poor Caelus," she mumbled and gently disentangled the letter from his claw.

Caelus screeched sharply and fluttered past her into the house. The pencil writing on the envelope was smudged due to the rain, but it was clearly Tom's elegant script. Minerva traced the letters of her name for a moment- she had always liked how he wrote her name in his flowing script.

The letter was written on a page torn from a scrap book and it had not been written in ink but in pencil, making it even harder to decipher the words.

_"My dear Minerva,_

_I shall hope the rain does not smudge my letters. _

_I don't have ink here, ink is rare in London these days. The attacks have stopped for now, but half the city seems to lie in ruins. _

_Everything is being rationed. I cannot even begin to tell you how much I miss the food we have at Hogwarts! _

_But all the more I miss you. I can't wait for school to start again. You are the only one who understands me, the only one I trust. I wish you were here. _

_Tom."_

Minerva felt how her heart filled with worry for him. She wished she could be with him in that moment, hold him close and tell him how much he meant to her. There was a sense of abject loneliness in his lines that made her heart ache. She knew he wouldn't have showed this side of his to anyone else but her. In a way, it made her feel truly special.

But wasn't she being terribly insidious? She was elated about getting his letters yet attempting to spy on him…she pushed the uncomfortable thoughts away, chewed on the tip of her quill and finally set to work. Dumbledore didn't know anything. He was wrong about Tom. Her Tom, her Tom who wrote such letters filled with such genuine longing could never lose himself in the Dark Arts.

Having finished the letter, she saw Caelus off and watched after him as he got lost in the grey clouds and the rainstorm, a small shape hurtled around by the icy winds.

"Be safe, Tom," she whispered, hugging his letter close to her chest. "Be safe."

* * *

_tbc_


	14. 1941 Part IV

_Hello everyone! It's been some time :) I am finally on break for a while now. It's wonderful to have time for this story again. Since university doesn't start until mid-october, you can expect a few more updates until then :) This update has lots and lots of Dumbledore, but not so much of Tom and Minerva. I promise I am going to change that in the next chapter. This is also largely in Dumbledore's POV. I hope I managed to capture him and also the way he's different in the Forties than in say, Harry's time. He's a difficult character to capture. Please tell me your thoughts about that. Hopefully no one minds this being in his POV. That won't happen so excessively again, I promise...but the whole Grindelwald problem wanted to be introduced._

_Thank you so much for your wonderful reviews,_** Megii, Sarafina **_(Yes, I'm pretty sure English is not my first language, but thank you :) Also, I promise I am going to update faster now)_**, Valentina, nibblehead **_(Lots of Grindelwald in this chapter :) I'm glad you like the story!)__ and_** Reiko Anne! **

_It's late and I am tired, so I can only hope you like this chapter :) And I am always happy about reviews! They make me dance through the room with a wide smile on my face :) Oh just one last thing- Madam Yuhe's last name (Yùhé) is not a very common last name in China, but one of its meaning is __"to heal" (yes, I know, not very creative). My apologies to all Chinese native-speakers should this be wrong. My Chinese is sadly still very bad, though I am working hard on it :) It's a very beautiful language._

_And as usual, I am also sorry if I killed the wonderful English language somewhere in this chapter. Please tell me about any horrible mistakes. Apologies also for the few bad Italian sentences in there. At least I am sure about the German :)_

_Sachita :)_**  
**

* * *

**Chapter Thirteen  
**

**Hogwarts Express, September 1941 **

"Alright, listen up, Prefects; we have a busy year ahead of us! There is much to be done, we have many responsibilities. There might be a dark time ahead of us with the war raging in Wizard Europe…"

Minerva, squished in the doorframe between Antonin Dolohov, a Sixth-Year-Slytherin Prefect, and James Taylor, who was the Sixth-Year-Gryffindor Prefect with her, chose this moment to speak up.

She had to stand on her tiptoes to look over the heads of the gaggle of Prefects standing in front of the place where the high girlish voice was coming from.

"This is a train compartment, not the Great Hall. Could you just give us our shift times and this year's meeting times and be done with it?"

The new Head Girl, Annegrit Seesters, blonde hair up in a complicated bun that Minerva would have never been able to reciprocate, glared at her. She very much believed in effusiveness, something Minerva couldn't understand at all.

"I hate to agree with McGonagall," Dolohov grumbled from his uncomfortable position next to Minerva in the doorframe, "but she does have a point, you know. We can speak lots and lots of times about everything else on our first meeting, not in the Hogwarts Express. It might be that Hufflepuff pupils have fewer things to do than others."

Annegrit was a Hufflepuff and her glare intensified. Dolohov smirked derisively, laugh lines crinkling around his grey eyes.

"Alright," Annegrit finally snapped, "Barrister! Where are you? Here are your shifts! Creevey! Come on!" Minerva zoned out, only paying attention when she heard a familiar name. "Riddle! You are new, aren't you? Well, here are your things. You can give this to McGonagall, while you're at it. Politeness? Do you want double shifts?"

Minerva couldn't hear Tom's replies because he spoke quietly, but she prayed that he wasn't aggravating the Head girl on his first day as a Prefect. From experience she knew that double and triple shifts could be an ugly thing. One thing that did not surprise her though, was that he had made Prefect.

Tom had not been at King's Cross Station and she had been quite disappointed. The summer holidays had been long and in spite of their regular correspondence, she had missed him quite a lot-his biting sarcasm, cunning wit and dry smile had haunted her nights. Sometimes it scared her; this dependency on him and everything he did, but there was no way back. She was already in too deep.

With a few mumbled swears a dishevelled Tom squeezed through the mass of pupils. His wavy hair was hanging messily in his flushed face and with an impatient huff he swiped it away from his forehead. Minerva smiled at him, giddily even. He looked bad, she noted, his face was gaunt and he looked even sickly. There were blue-tinged bags underneath his eyes.

"Tom!"

"Minerva," he acknowledged her flatly, making Minerva's heart sink. Hadn't he missed her one bit? How he could write such passionate letters and yet be so cold at the same time? She couldn't understand him at times.

"You already aggravated Annegrit, I heard," she observed calmly, willing none of her disappointment into her voice and expression.

Tom snorted in irritation. "Politeness is not among Miss Seester's undoubtedly countless talents," he said coolly. He handed her a thick envelope with the simple inscription "Minerva McGonagall."

Minerva meanwhile laughed at his sarcasm and started to move down the corridor. "Don't mind her. Calmness is the way to peace of mind, Tom." Tom raised an eyebrow at that empty phrase and wanted to add something, when someone slammed into Minerva, knocking the breath out of her.

"Would you have a care!" Minerva snapped, annoyed. Tom smirked at that, undoubtedly thinking of a few witty comebacks to her empty phrase from before.

"Sorry, Minerva," Myrtle squeaked and ran past her, flushing as she caught sight of Tom in passing.

Minerva stared after her. "I do not understand how someone gifted with no subtlety at all could end up in Ravenclaw."

Tom held the door to an empty compartment open for her. "Well," he pointed out dryly, "look at it this way. Myrtle isn't as obtuse as she appears. She is smart in an entirely different way. I've watched her. She knows how to manipulate people. They may not like her, but they end up helping her nonetheless just to get rid of her."

Minerva sat down opposite of Tom and righted the skirt of her gymslip. Skeptically, she replied: "I've never thought I'd hear you sympathise with Myrtle."

Tom traced the shapes of the raindrops on the window pane and said calmly : "I don't sympathise with her. I analyse her. There's a difference."

Personally, I don't care much for her," Minerva admitted, feeling only a slight pang of guilt at her own words. Yes, Myrtle was one of her tuition charges, but her breezy, over-the-top kind of behaviour and her obvious crush on Tom had ever annoyed the straight-laced Minerva who preferred to see things as they were.

"Well," Tom told her and reclined in his seat, raising a wry black eyebrow, "neither do I, but you never know when she might be helpful, so it's advisable to have her on your side."

Minerva's Gryffindor side protested at his words. "You can't do that!"

Tom looked at her nonchalantly, the midnight eyes mildly curious at her incensed shriek. "Do what?"

Minerva continued heatedly. "You can't see people like that, as if they were only means to an end!"

Tom chuckled, folding his long arms over his chest. "Now you are defending her. A mere two seconds ago you said you didn't care much for her."

Minerva threw her hands up, willing him to see her side of things. "Well, I don't. But this is different."

Instead of replying to her statement, Tom smiled at her. It was so seldom to see him give a genuine smile, so Minerva relished in seeing it and she forgot about Myrtle. Tom did even have dimples and Minerva secretly found it adorable, but she would have never told him. Tom was not overly fond of being labelled things such as adorable or cute. It warred with his sense of manliness, she supposed.

"I missed your spirited replies, Minerva," was all he finally said, but for Minerva it was more than enough. Tom ever only called her Minerva, not "Minnie" or "Sweetheart" and she loved him all the more for it. Minerva was not one to be belittled. She smiled at him brilliantly and when he took her hand, she allowed him to do so. There was the rain outside and the steady movement of the train and Tom's hand was warm in hers.

For the moment it was perfect.

* * *

**Hogwarts, September 5th, 1941**

"Miss Minerva!" Rubeus Hagrid was running to catch up to Minerva and Poppy.

"Rubeus!" Minerva called, beaming. She had missed the presence of her young friend. Rubeus was loveable, loyal and good. It was a great thing to have him as friend, even though he was four years her junior. She felt sisterly affection towards him. He didn't have any family left after the death of his father a year prior and as such, she felt it was her duty to look out for him.

"Rubeus," Poppy smiled up at him. "How good to see you."

"Likewise," Rubeus grinned shyly.

"Are you looking forward to your Second Year, Rubeus?" Minerva inquired, wondering whether the situation with the children in his year had changed at all.

"Now that I know you two," Rubeus said with a happy smile, "yes."

"Good, because I believe you shall learn a lot of useful things this term," she continued, smiling broadly as he let her tug him along the busy corridor to the Great Hall in order to eat dinner. "Professor Kettleburn mentioned something about having prepared some extraordinary magical creatures for the Second-Years this term," Minerva told him, watching in amusement as a joyous grin spread across his face.

His fascination with dangerous animals was still very much present. Professor Kettleburn had indeed mentioned having prepared extraordinary species for the Second Years this year at the Prefects-Teachers-meeting, which took place every two months or so.

A well-known person passed them in just that moment.

"Minerva." It was Tom. He smiled at her briefly, then his gaze wandered over to Poppy and finally Rubeus. A slight sneer passed over his features. "Miss Pomfrey. Rubeus."

"Riddle," Poppy nodded coldly. For some reason the two of them had never warmed to one another, but Poppy was civil to him, because she knew how much he meant to Minerva. Rubeus seemed to shrink, even though he was a good two heads taller than Tom.

"He-Hello Tom."

Another cool look at Rubeus, a nod at Minerva and Tom was gone.

"What was that about?" Minerva asked and whirled around to Rubeus.

"I-"he wouldn't meet her eyes.

"Did he scare you?" She asked furiously, already slipping into protector mode. "He has no right to do that. I shall tell him so in a moment."

Oh yes, Minerva knew, that Tom could be intimidating when he wanted to. Tall, handsome Slytherin Prefect that he was, he wielded quite some power. But he had no right whatsoever to abuse it!

Again, his supposedly secret meetings Myrtle had told her about but which she had not found anything out about in spite of her having followed him in her animagus form quite often, came to the forefront of her mind.

She felt her temper flare up and already wanted to go after Tom, when Rubeus held her back.

Rubeus holding someone back was as if someone had yanked her back with brutal force and so she staggered back a few steps.

"No, Rubeus," she told him in an irritated voice, "You shouldn't let him scare you. He can be quite a bully. But he has no right!"

"Please, Minerva," Rubeus seemed to be on the verge of tears. "Please leave it alone."

"Alright, I will," she finally gave in, if only because he seemed so terrified. She vowed to talk it over with Tom though. "Thank you," Rubeus breathed and although she was used to his spontaneous bursts of affection, she couldn't hold back a startled squeak as she was lifted and crushed against his chest. Poppy at her side chuckled before Hagrid, with a playful grin, set Minerva down and swept Poppy off her feet.

Now Minerva was the one laughing.

* * *

**Hogwarts, September 13****th,**** 1941**

Minerva was outside, sitting on the edge of the Quidditch Pitch. The conversation with Tom a few days ago about Rubeus had produced no satisfactory results.

He had brushed it off with a charming smile, but she knew that there was more to it and Minerva was determined to find out what.

She was curled up against one of the huge wooden towers, inhaling the smell of dry wood and early autumn. This was one of her favourite places, along with the edge of the lake where she could have sat endlessly, only watching the ripples of the waters chase one another on the stony beach.

But the lakeside was quite crowded on this day and Minerva did not feel like company. If she had felt removed from the girls in her year the years before, it was nothing compared to what she felt now. In a way, she felt older than them. Elma and Mary were still going on about the latest Muggle film stars, while Aimee had sunk into depression, writing poems dealing with unrequited love. Minerva had found a few of them lying around. She even knew about the object of Aimee's affections, a slim blond Ravenclaw who stood among the tallest in his year and was called Brandon. Unfortunately he was to graduate this year. Minerva felt sorry for the shy Aimee, but Aimee and she had never been close and she felt too removed from everyone's problems, really, to be doing anything to help them.

Abigail's marriage that had taken place a few days before she had returned to school and Michael's departure to the British Army were two events that had turned her world upside down.

Minerva leaned back and enjoyed the golden sunlight of autumn playing with her hair and kissing her face. Abigail's wedding had certainly put a few things into perspective…as she had watched her friend walk down the aisle to meet her husband, a middle-aged moustached farmer, at the altar she had realised something. Abigail might have been smiling, but was she really happy? Was this dress not like a symbol for a prison? Minerva was never going to allow anyone to imprison her.

Her mother was keen to marry her off to some rich pureblood, but, what she had felt fiercely about at fourteen years of age had now matured to a cool determined notion- before she allowed mother to marry her off, she was going to break ties with her.

Being an independent woman in the wizard world of the 1940s was certainly easier than it had been some twenty or thirty years ago, but a woman choosing a profession of her own was still much frowned upon. The only truly acceptable traditional line of work for a woman was becoming a teacher- both in the Muggle and the Wizard World, but a part of Minerva toyed with a completely other profession. The Unspeakables held a certain appeal to her due to her thirst for knowledge, but becoming an Auror seemed to be an even more interesting prospect.

Resting her head on her knees, Minerva swore to herself that she would never be tied down. By no one.

"What are you thinking about?"

Tom stood next to her, tall and towering from where she was sitting on the ground. Minerva blinked against the sun and tried to smile at him, but it was a wan smile and Tom must have noticed for he sank down next to her.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing," she sighed. "I am just…" Frustrated she twirled a strand of dark hair around her fingers. "I am just-"

Tom reclined a little and watched her calmly. To anyone else, the steady stare might have been unnerving but Minerva felt somewhat reassured by his attention. How different Tom was from the men of their time, she mused. Most of them didn't listen to a girl's opinion, deeming her silly and her words unimportant in this predominantly masculine world.

How Minerva despised those men!

She knew that she was as talented as any of them, maybe even more so.

Tom however listened to everyone- oh of course, he only listened when he deemed his interlocutors to be worthy of his time, but he didn't make any gender distinctions.

"Minerva," Tom said neutrally and she knew that she had to speak.

"Abigail married this summer," Minerva stated in a largely casual manner.

"And that bothers you."

"No. I- yes, no-"She sighed in aggravation. "I told you that my mother wants to place me in an arranged marriage, didn't I?"

"You did." Tom seemed to understand what she was trying to say without so many words.

"You don't want to be placed in an arranged marriage. You don't want to be tied down and marry some rich pureblood wizard, who spends his time reading the _Wizard Economy Weekly _and smoking an overly large pipe. You want to be free to do whatever you want."

"Exactly!" Minerva cried and felt how her abysmal discontent swapped over her once again.

"Well then," Tom said and he smirked wryly, "tell her, that if she wants you to be married at all costs, you'll marry me."

"Like she'd agree to that!" Minerva protested, but a small smile was appearing on her face.

"I don't care whether she agrees or not!" Tom jumped up and swept her off the ground, swinging her around in a great circle. "We'll travel the world together- New York, Paris, Sydney and Beijing!"

Minerva laughed freely now, she couldn't help herself. She loved when he was like that. He only ever was like that with her and only with her.

"Capetown, Auckland, La Paz and Ottawa!"

Again, he swung her around in an exuberant whirl in the sunshine. Then he stopped, since they were both out of breath. Tom held Minerva close and whispered in her ear:

"Don't worry about your mother, Minerva. I promise you that I won't let her place you in an arranged marriage with some buffoon. I won't allow her to take you away from me. No one will ever take you away from me."

At that last sentence, she shivered. _Not to be tied down by anyone…_a little voice mused inside her head. _Oh hush,_ she scoffed. _Tom is different. _But the little voice would not be quieted and a part of her knew that it was right.

* * *

**Professor Dumbledore's Office, September 20****th****, 1941**

"So," Professor Dumbledore asked conversationally when they were well into one of their meetings over scones and tea. "Has something come up with Mister Riddle?"

Minerva stiffened, as she always did when Tom's name was mentioned by Dumbledore. She decided to go for what she deemed to be the safest topic; not Myrtle's remarks about the strange meetings or Tom's behaviour at the Slug Party, but instead she said:

"Well, if you want to hear it, Professor, at a party last year hosted by Professor Slughorn there was an Italian woman who warned me of Tom. She said that she had had bad experiences herself. But to be honest I think it was little more than the words of a bitter middle-aged woman."

Dumbledore looked surprised. "What was her name then? An Italian woman at one of Horace's parties? I honestly can't remember any Italian exchange students in the last decades. They usually end up going to Beauxbatons."

"Gitta Scraviani," Minerva said, adding a distracted "I think she wasn't at Hogwarts," because her attention had been caught by the golden pair of compasses on Dumbledore's desk that was avidly drawing circles and scribbles for seemingly no reason at all. When she looked up again, she was surprised to see shock in Dumbledore's blue eyes.

"Gitta Scraviani?" Dumbledore seemed more astonished than anything else. Something bitter was in his expression. "You met her? Are you sure?"

"I did." Minerva finally blurted out what had been bothering her until then. "Who is she? Do you know her, sir?"

"Gitta Scraviani," Dumbledore mused, not replying directly to her question at first. "What a remarkable coincidence. No one has seen her for years. She was at Horace's party, you say…Well, that's interesting."

"She told me she had to flee Italy because a group of radically-minded wizards was threatening her family," Minerva continued. Suddenly she wanted to know everything that there was about Gitta Scraviani. Something told her it was important.

Dumbledore chuckled. Again, there seemed to be a nuance of bitterness in it. "Well, I daresay this is a very creative lie. No, she did not have to flee Europe because of that."

"Why then, Professor?"

Dumbledore seemed to contemplate something. He looked at her intently with his intense blue gaze and Minerva tried her best to hold it.

"Gitta Scraviani- or at least that's one of her names," Dumbledore told her finally, "has been the lover of Gellert Grindelwald for long years."

Minerva gasped. "What?"

Without reacting to her exclamation of shock, Dumbledore continued, stroking his beard in agitation.

"There is an age gap of more than twenty years between them…They met in Berlin, in the late 1920s, which was a vibrant city then, full of flappers and jazz singers. She was twenty-three and a witch, yet she was working as a Muggle dancer at that time. He was already past forty…for reasons unknown to me, she stayed with him until he exposed his true face. When he started to wreak havoc in Central Europe, she fled. There were search parties with the only aim to find her. She was seen in Germany, in Italy, in Switzerland…the last sighting of her occurred about five years ago. But no one has seen her ever since."

Dumbledore got up and paced through his study.

"Why would she come here? Is she still with him? Has he sent her?" he asked urgently to no one in particular.

There was a still a badly-veiled note of bitterness in his voice that had Minerva wonder whether he had been in love with Gitta once, too.

"Did you love her?" The question was out before Minerva could have stopped herself. Horrified, she clamped a hand over her mouth.

"I am sorry," she stammered, reddening rapidly, "I am so sorry, sir! My mouth ran away with me…I am so sorry."

Dumbledore had stopped in his motions. "No, I did not love _her_," he said slowly, putting an odd emphasis on the word her. Minerva understood. "Not her," she said dazedly.

Professor Dumbledore's eyes were suddenly glinting with an intensity she had never seen before.

"I shall ask you to keep this to yourself, Miss McGonagall. Should you speak out, I will deny everything…but should you keep this to yourself, know that my trust in you will be even furthered."

"I will keep it to myself," Minerva found herself promising past the thick haze that surrounded her. "I will. I promise."

Some minutes later, stumbling out of Dumbledore's study, Minerva still felt as if caught in some weird nightmarish dream. Dumbledore…and …and …and Gitta had warned her! But Tom- and the puzzle fell into place. But Tom was not like Grindelwald! Sure, he was dark, even dangerous, but not…he would not kill innocents, would he? He wouldn't.

Surely not!

* * *

**Professor Dumbledore's Office, September 22****nd****, 1941**

Albus Dumbledore watched her for a moment as she gracefully ascended the stairs heading to his office. As soon as Minerva had told him about Gitta Scraviani being in Hogwarts, he'd had her searched and they'd eventually found her in Hogsmeade. He had been quite relieved, for some months had passed since Minerva had seen her, but she had still stayed in Hogsmeade and to his surprise, seemed to have waited for them to find her.

A fine woman she certainly was, with her finely-cut features and shapely figure; the mahogany tresses and those doe eyes that told of warm Sicily nights. Yes, a fine woman.

He could see what Gellert had found so intoxicating about her. But there was no time for that now and he shoved the irrational spike of jealousy to the back of his mind where it belonged.

Instead, he got up and bowed in a very Victorian fashion, befitting for another time and certainly different Ladies and he knew it. The tiny smirk that pulled at the corner of her red lips told him that she'd seen through his false politesse and had discovered the underlying derision. Ah, but she was good, though in hindsight that should have been expected- would Gellert have settled for anything less than the best?

"Miss Scraviani," Albus intoned politely. "We have never met to face, but I've heard a lot about you already."

"Mister Dumbledore," she greeted formally, a hint of an Italian accent colouring her melodious voice, just heavy enough to be noticed, yet light enough to sound entirely pleasant. For some reason that made Albus despise her even more.

"I must say," he remarked lightly, none of the dislike he felt audible in his voice, "I thought you were dead."

"There is a saying in Continental Europe: _Totgesagte leben länger_. It means-"

"People said to be dead are those whose life is actually characterised by longevity," Albus interrupted.

"You know German…" She turned away from him and, gathering her long red skirts up, walked past one of his impressive shelves of books, brushing her finger along their ancient covers.

"I shouldn't be surprised, I guess." A tremulous laugh escaped her before she squared her shoulders determinedly and faced him. "Now I do know, Mister Dumbledore," Gitta Scraviani rolled her r's in a most peculiar way," that you do not care much for me."

"You stayed with him even while you knew what he was doing," Albus accused and as hard as he tried the bitterness had seeped into his voice. Ah, love. It was the one thing that could get past his defences these days.

As if he hadn't learned. Some part of him was still young and foolish.

"I loved him," Gitta replied simply and the look in her doe eyes was haunted.

So did I, was on tip of Albus's tongue but he would not grace her with that information, if she didn't already know. Instead he stared at her levelly, his eyes devoid of their usual twinkle, waiting for the reason as to why she had come to him.

"I have a few pieces of information for you and I have nowhere else to go," Gitta Scraviani said. "I managed to flee from him once again when he captured me about a year ago. An acquaintance of yours had just arrived a few days prior to my escape."

"Accuratore," Dumbledore surmised and he sank down in his chair, one hand stroking his long auburn beard.

"Yes," she acquiesced. There was no triumph in her voice, no anger, just years-old weariness. "He spun a quite colourful tale about his escape from here. Gellert-"she hesitated-"well, he's wreaked enough havoc in Europe and as such was quite eager to have a spy here in Hogwarts. He still fears you, a lot even. As such you can imagine…his reception of Accuratore was not so pleasant."

Lost in thought, she caressed her slender wrist, as if tracing some faded bruises.

"But then Accuratore," she continued, "told Gellert about two of the most promising students Hogwarts has seen in decades. Students who might even rival Gellert's power one day."

Albus closed his eyes. Not them. Not Minerva.

"Their names are Tom Riddle and-"

"Minerva McGonagall," Albus finished for her, his head sagging in defeat.

"Yes," Gitta Scraviani confirmed quietly, flicking her long tresses over her shoulders. "I saw them. At Horace Slughorn's party. The girl has fire. I liked her. She reminds me of myself in some aspects, the way I used to be- such passion, such determination to find her own path in life…but the boy. There is something dark about him, Mister Dumbledore. Something that reminds me of Gellert. So much anger, so much bitterness…you had better keep an eye on him, Mister."

Albus shot her a sharp look. "Do not patronise me, Miss Scraviani. I daresay you are hardly in a position to make demands."

She shrugged her slim shoulders delicately.

"I don't have much to lose, Mister Dumbledore. This is not my problem any longer. And it's not yours alone either. Neither is it only a problem of Continental Wizarding Europe. It's time for Wizarding Britain to help the Continent."

Albus froze suddenly as something occurred to him. "Merlin!" he swore, although he was usually not prone to swearing. "It's Hogsmeade weekend."

"What does that mean?"

"It means, Miss Scraviani, that the students are in Hogsmeade where they can easily be attacked. Mister Riddle and Miss McGonagall, too."

He had let his affection for Gellert cloud his thoughts. But he refused to lose Minerva, whom he loved like a daughter, to that beast. He would not make that mistake again. Hastening to the door, he shot the Italian witch a strict glare.

"You stay here. Just call out _Misty _if you want something to eat. Misty is a very competent House Elf of ours. She will see to your needs." Misty was also extraordinarily loyal and adept at keeping secrets to herself. Albus was very fond of the old house elf. He knew his old friend wouldn't fail him.

Gitta Scraviani laughed. It bordered on hysterical. "Ah, Mister Dumbledore, _Questo era un altro dei tuoi scherzi, vero?_ I said: You like to joke, no? Where would I go?"

The door closed after Albus and Gitta was left alone. With an aching heart, she walked to the window pane and touched it, heaving the sigh of a woman who had been wronged time and time again but who still loved no matter how monstrous her lover had become. "Oh Gellert…"

* * *

**Hogsmeade, The Three Broomsticks, September 22****nd****, 1941**

"Near the Chinese city of Changsha there is heavy fighting between Japanese Troops and Chinese Nationalist Troops going on," Minerva read, a frown appearing between her dark brows. She sighed heavily and looked at Tom.

The last days had been a whirlwind for her. Professor Dumbledore's revelation had been a shock. Sometimes she couldn't help but look at Tom and wonder if Gitta Scraviani's words of cautions had been true. But then again, the woman had lied to her. Surely the lover of Grindelwald could not be trusted- who knew where her allegiances lay?

She heaved a sigh and felt faintly guilty for she didn't only think of the state of the world as a whole but also of her very own world, when she said: "It feels as if the entire world is breaking apart these days."

"We should consider ourselves lucky," Tom replied with a nod. "Hogwarts is much like a safe haven in that respect."

"All that bloodshed," Minerva whispered. She didn't even see the interior of the Three Broomsticks anymore. Instead, her gaze wandered outside to the Scottish hills, where a cold winter blew, preparing them for the approaching winter. Her thoughts touched the Chinese and Japanese people, of whom so many were dying now, wandered to the people of Africa and Europe- how many died there?- and these thoughts nearly made tears come to her eyes. It seemed so senseless, so very sense- and needless. The works of madmen.

"You shouldn't cry for any of them," Tom advised coolly.

"Why not?" Minerva stared at him in outright indignation. "Every life lost is a tragedy."

"It's the human nature. They will never change. First World War was called the war to end all wars, wasn't it?" Tom looked darkly amused.

"And what do we have now?" He laughed bitterly. "Homo homini lupus est. Man is a wolf to his fellow man. You have heard this, haven't you? Well, it's all true."

In spite of herself, Minerva chuckled cynically. "I should have known you are fond of Thomas Hobbes. It just seems like your kind of philosopher. Cynical, bitter, dark…"

"That's how you see me then?" Tom asked, raising a sarcastic eyebrow. "I am flattered. Thanks. But it's true. I have seen humans do grisly things, Minerva…in London, during the Blitz. A man didn't let a small girl into his shelter because he feared that he might die himself. Instead, she died. I've seen things, Minerva, watched people do things..."

The look in his eyes was bleak.

"You don't know what I have seen," he stated coolly, but only a second later his usual look of wry amusement was back. But Minerva did know Tom and she knew that the desolateness had been there. Who was she to judge him? She hadn't been forced to grow up in a loveless orphanage and neither had she been forced to experience the Blitz, if for only a night.

She couldn't possibly judge him.

"I am sorry, Tom," she told him sincerely and took his hand.

Tom smiled reservedly and quite thinly. "Don't worry about it, Minerva. Try a few of the pastries instead, they are quite delicious."

"You and your sweet tooth," Minerva stated in weak amusement and took one of the pastries on the table in front of them. They were quite delicious. Tom was definitely right.

* * *

Later on the way to the castle on a path that few used, the previous tense atmosphere was completely gone. Tom was waving Minerva's _Daily Prophet_ through the air and Minerva tried to take it from him. The autumn leaves flew everywhere when Minerva charged at Tom again. He simply used his superior height and held the newspaper high in the sun-speckled light that filtered through the broad-leaved forest. The more she jumped and yelled, the merrier Tom waved the newspaper through the air with a superior smirk on his face.

"Give it back!" Minerva yelled. Tom was in the process of switching the newspaper from one hand to the other when he suddenly froze mid-motion.

"Ha!" She yelled in triumph when she got hold of the newspaper, but Tom stilled her with a hand on his arm. "Tom, what…?"

"Turn around," Tom hissed, withdrawing his wand from his pocket in a fluid motion. He pushed her behind his back before she could see what was going on. When she understood what he meant to do she whipped her own wand out of her pocket and they stood back-to-back.

From both banks of the hollow-way they had been walking on black-clad people appeared. They were wearing masks and had all their wands out. Minerva counted ten of them. They came steadily closer, in a quite threatening manner. The dead autumn leaves crunched under Minerva's feet as she instinctively pressed her body tighter against Tom's back.

"What do you want? Who are you?" Tom's voice was steady.

"You must be Tom Riddle," one of the black-clad persons stated amusedly. It was a man, judging from his heavy-set stature and voice. His words were heavily-accented- he sounded as if he was maybe Russian. Another spoke up, this time a woman with a distinctly English accent. "And I suppose you, my dear, are Minerva McGonagall."

"How do you know that?" Minerva's voice came out shriller than she had intended. This was all bad news. How many dark wizards and their minions were out there at the moment? Minerva could only think of one…which meant that…oh dear. "Professor Accuratore," she whispered.

"Smart girl," the English witch said in a mock-proud tone of voice. "He was indeed the one, who informed us about you two _prodigies_. Still didn't make it to the next day."

A few of the black-clad people snickered; apparently Accuratore hadn't been very popular among them.

"If you lovelies would follow us," the man, who had spoken first, said. "We are to take you to our Master."

"Never," Tom said quietly and venomously.

"I am sure you are aware of Mister Grindelwald's brilliance. Who are you to refuse, foolish child?" The English witch's voice was hysterical and angry.

"Your Master's brilliance?" Tom laughed derisively. "He is so afraid of Dumbledore that he doesn't even dare set foot on this island! He's a coward!"

"Enough!" The witch bellowed sharply. "Cru-"

"Stupefy!" Tom was quicker and the witch dropped to the ground.

"Impedimenta!" Minerva snapped, when the Russian man charged forward.

Then the curses started flying. Minerva and Tom defended themselves to the best of their abilities, but they didn't stand a chance against eight experienced dark wizards. They had another three of Grindelwald's followers down when Minerva suddenly heard a quiet sound behind her and half- turned to see Tom sag to the ground, his leaning against her legs being the only reason that kept him upright.

He had paled rapidly and his breath was coming in short gasps, while he pressed a shaking hand against his midriff. The other hand was holding his wand, but it was clear that he couldn't do anything with it, because he was busy fighting to stay conscious. Red was oozing through his fingers and the wand slipped out of his hand. "Tom-"

"Expelliarmus!" Minerva's wand went flying out of her hand and landed somewhere in the bushes.

"Now," the Russian bellowed, recovered from the curse. "We won't ask so nicely again. If you don't want to come voluntarily…hold him upright, won't you!" Minerva pulled Tom up with shaking hands. His tall frame slumped against her immediately with the force of his full weight, making her stagger and nearly fall over. Trembling all over in terror and defenceless without her wand, she pulled him closer. "Tom," she mumbled. He groaned quietly into her hair.

"Now," another man spoke, this time one with a German accent. Grindelwald seemed to have recruited people all over Europe, Minerva thought fleetingly.

_Multicultural assimilation_, a voice inside her head gasped with what felt suspiciously like hysterical humour,_ Grindelwald sure is doing his part in promoting international understanding_!

The man was standing right in front of them. "If you would come with us…"

"No!" Tom bellowed hoarsely and suddenly a burst of raw magic unlike anything Minerva had ever encountered before came from him. Green light shot out from his hand in powerful waves, knocking the dark wizards to the ground. Minerva stared in amazement. This was wandless magic at a very high level, a level she might only attain with a lot of practice. When the green light had receded, Tom sagged against Minerva and this time the onslaught of his dead weight toppled her over. She quickly crawled out from underneath him and rolled him over.

"Tom?" No response. "Tom!"

"Minerva!" It was a welcome voice to her.

"Professor," she stammered, on the verge of hysterics and in hindsight she supposed she must have been quite a sight, cowering white-faced next to a limp Tom, his blood all over her hands. Professor Dumbledore eyed her in undisguised concern, an anxious-looking Professor Slughorn, and Madam Yuhe next to him

"Oh dear Merlin," Madam Yuhe said in horror, hurrying over to Tom, quickly conjuring a stretcher and levitating Tom on it. Minerva retrieved Tom's and her wand, hurrying back to the Mediwitch immediately. Professor Dumbledore put a calming hand on her arm.

"We will talk later, Minerva," was all he said, giving her arm a reassuring squeeze. "Why don't you go up to the castle and get cleaned up. We will take care of this. You both did well. And don't go outside again!" He said that last sentence with a steely voice and Minerva couldn't do anything but nod tremulously.

She hurried to keep up with the Mediwitch and Tom's stretcher. Madam Yuhe didn't say a word to her holding his hand all the way to the castle.

* * *

**Hospital Wing, September 22****nd****, 1941**

"How are they?" Dumbledore asked Madam Yuhe. The petite Chinese witch looked exhausted. She nodded to the beds with the two sole occupants at the back of the Hospital Wing. "They are as well as can be expected. Mister Riddle should return to health in a week or two at most. Miss McGonagall should stay overnight and the next day, just in case, though I don't see why she can't go back to class the day after tomorrow."

"Thank you, Mei-Lin."

She nodded curtly at him and then walked away, undoubtedly preparing herself and the hospital wing for the next day. Albus had met few so dedicated to her profession as Mei-Lin Yuhe.

He walked over to the beds, taking care to tread quietly. Minerva McGonagall and Tom Riddle. It was rare to see them with their guard down like this. They were both very reserved children- no, not children, he corrected himself. How quickly time went by…Minerva was nearly sixteen and Tom would turn fifteen in a few months. When he remembered what he had been like at age fifteen, he knew that he would have resented being called a child. A small sad smile pulled at the corners of his mouth.

Tom Riddle looked almost innocent in his sleep, as he lay there, pale and unmoving. A handsome boy certainly…but only on the outside.

Albus had seen what lay beneath that angelic exterior- and it was pure poison. Would the boy have developed differently if he hadn't had to grow up in that orphanage? Maybe if only he himself had been gentler at their first meeting, but then the boy had stirred something in him, had reminded him of the other evil he had once known but had ignored at first…still, he should have been more considerate, then maybe the boy would have shown trust. The fact that Tom'd asked whether Albus was a psychiatric doctor should have alerted him. Who knew what prejudices the boy must have faced growing up- and Albus knew that Muggle psychiatric clinics were awful places. But all these contemplations came far too late and he knew it. Tom Riddle had his shields firmly in place and Albus certainly wasn't responsible for the boy's actions. Merlin knew he wasn't responsible for everyone.

His gaze wandered to his favourite pupil lying in the next bed. Minerva. Minerva and Tom. He had tried to discourage it, but then he should have known that the two of them would gravitate towards one another…brilliance was a magnet for brilliance after all. But he had warned her and she was not a child any longer. Albus wasn't responsible for her actions either.

There was nothing he could do. He had a war to fight and a war to win. A war he didn't want to fight. Not against this man. Gellert…But he had no choice and today's happening just showed again how little choice he had. Gellert was, if not in person, attacking him on his home turf and he had to be ready to defeat him. With that in mind he vowed to strengthen the wards of Hogsmeade.

At the door of the hospital wing, he paused and looked back. "Please, Merlin, don't let my premonitions come true. She doesn't deserve it. The world doesn't deserve a second Dark Lord," he whispered and shivered at his own words. Someone with Tom's abilities on the dark side was nearly too terrifying to contemplate. But Merlin didn't listen, did he? With a last sad smile Albus Dumbledore exited the hospital wing and headed with great steps toward his office.

Gitta was still there, sleeping on a chair in the corner. Albus very nearly felt sorry for her when she startled awake, her mahogany curls tousled and her eyes red, but then he remembered who she was and what she'd done.

"You can't stay here," was all he said.

Gitta Scraviani looked very defeated. "I guessed so," she replied with the ghost of a smile. "You know they will kill me, don't you? But _tutto è bene_, all is good,in the world of Albus Dumbledore now, isn't it?"

Albus shook his head. He felt every one of his sixty years in that moment. "I can't trust you," he answered calmly. "You could still be working for him. You still love him after all."

Gitta nodded and walked to the door, her head held high. Her hand hovering over the door knob, she turned back. "He talks of you often, you know. Almost in a reverent tone of voice."

"Go," Albus growled roughly.

She did go then and Albus watched the door close behind her. "It was the right decision," he mumbled to himself. "She can't be trusted."

He was still telling that to himself, when, a few days later, the Daily Prophet's headline said that Gitta Scraviani had been killed just outside of London.

* * *

_tbc_


	15. 1941 Part V

_Hi! New update! Thank you, **PottyParker** , for your review__!__ I really hope you like this chapter. Please tell me what you think of it. I am not having the best time at the moment and so I would love to get some reviews. __They brighten my day up :)_

_-Sachita ;)  
_

* * *

**Chapter Fourteen  
**

**Professor Dumbledore's Office, October 1941**

Minerva had turned sixteen the week before and while Poppy had wanted her to celebrate, Minerva hadn't really felt like it. Tom had been released from the hospital wing and was already doing quite well again, yet she felt the terror of that day hover over her with every step she took.

Sitting in Professor Dumbledore's office, stirring her milky tea with a silver spoon, she eventually asked what had been nagging at her for weeks now: "Sir, do you think Grindelwald will try again to capture Tom and me?"

Dumbledore sighed and leaned back in his chair, regarding her seriously. "We have beaten his forces for the moment, so I don't think you have to fear another attack happening too soon. Unfortunately, I know Gellert and if he wants something he is quite adamant about getting it. Still, he is smart. He won't waste too many resources on the capture of two young wizards."

Minerva nodded and bit her lip. "But there is one thing I don't understand, Professor. You told me that Gitta alerted you to the danger we were in. But why did she leave so hastily afterward?"

Professor Dumbledore gazed at her for a long moment and then averted his eyes. Slowly, he began: "It's nothing I am proud of, Minerva, but I shall be honest to you…"

"You sent her away?" Minerva interrupted and felt how a burst of righteous anger on Gitta's behalf coursed through her, mixed with horror at the thought that her favourite Professor could be capable of such despicable actions.

"You sent her away even if you knew she'd be killed?"

Her favourite teacher seemed to be looking for words. "It's not as easy as that, Minerva. I didn't know if she was a danger for Hogwarts. She might have still been working for him. It was not an easy decision, believe me…"

Minerva stared at him and felt how the pedestal she had always put him on crumbled slowly.

"I am sorry, Professor, but it appears I still have some school work to finish for tomorrow. May I be excused?"

Professor Dumbledore looked at her knowingly and also quite sadly. "You may, Minerva."

As the door closed behind the dark-haired girl he had come to love like a daughter, Albus sat wearily down and sighed. "One day, Minerva, you might understand though I am hoping you won't have to."

* * *

**Great Hall, Hogwarts, Late October 1941**

"FRANCE FALLEN, RUSSIA UNDER ATTACK; WILL WE BE NEXT?" the headline of the _Daily Prophet _read on this cold October day. Outside, harsh autumn storms were blowing over the Scottish countryside, bringing with them rain and sleet. No one was outside and many pupils were in the Great Hall, playing wizard chess, doing their homework or chatting quietly. Minerva's eyes moved from line to line as she read the article. The next page of the newspaper was as doom-filled as the first one.

"GRINDELWALD'S FOLLOWERS SIGHTED IN LONDON- WILL THERE BE TROUBLE FOR THE WIZARDING COMMUNITY AS WELL?"

Minerva scoffed and sipped slowly at her black tea. The _Daily Prophet_ sure knew how to instil apocalyptic feelings into the minds of the people.

But maybe it wasn't that far off and times were apocalyptic. She shuddered slightly when she thought of what had nearly happened to her Tom. A month had passed since the attack and Tom was back to his usual commanding, sarcastic and brilliant self; yet he still did look quite pale.

Minerva, whenever she saw him, always had to fight the urge to take him in her arms and keep him close to her side so no one could do anything to him. However, she knew that he despised such overly enthusiastic displays of affection and would also hate for her to think he needed to be protected by anyone so she did nothing of the sort.

The official version of what had happened was that Tom had been involved in a duel gone wrong- something easily believed by the students taking the animosity between Gryffindors and Slytherins into account. Especially since Charlus Potter, the Gryffindor Star Keeper, had taken a spectacular tumble off his broom last week and was now bedridden, the Slytherin Prefect Riddle's ailment was forgotten.

Gitta Scraviani's death a month ago had also upset Minerva more than it probably should have. She felt that the other woman could have still told her so much- and the brief conversation they'd had had shown Minerva that Gitta had by no means been evil. She'd just been a woman in love. And love made people blind. Minerva was also deeply disappointed in Professor Dumbledore. How could he have ever stooped so low as not to help a defenceless woman?

Minerva let her quill sink and stared morosely at the transfiguration essay. It was already two feet longer than required, but she couldn't stop writing now. Stopping would mean spending even more time pondering Gitta and Grindelwald…and herself and Tom. The comparison was of course ludicrous. Tom was not and would never be dark, yet he did have a twisted side to him. That much even she couldn't deny. A twisted side that he usually kept well-hidden…

Poppy, from the opposite side of the table, watched her in undisguised concern. "Minerva," she asked slowly, "what are you doing with your essay?"

Minerva looked down and saw that the lower half of her essay was filled with illegible scribbles. "Bloody hell," she muttered, "got to write it all again."

"Not everything, just the lower half. Then a simple glue charm will work wonders," Poppy told her softly. "What's wrong with you, Minerva?" she continued. "This is most unlike you."

"Don't worry about me," Minerva tried to sound as cheerful as she possibly could given her gloomy state of mind. "So what's new with your internship with Madam Yuhe?"

Madam Yuhe had offered Poppy the position of an intern after she finished school because Poppy was extraordinarily talented in both Potions and Herbology.

"I think I'll take her up on her offer," Poppy told Minerva, "it's a good offer." She sighed. "It's just that I'll be tying myself down to this profession so early. Being a healer isn't easy at times."

"I know," Minerva smiled reassuringly at her friend. "But you are one of the most caring persons I know. I know you will do well."

Poppy said something else, but Minerva didn't hear her. Tom had just entered the Great Hall and every of her worries came flooding back to her at his sight. Poppy followed her line of sight and sighed. So much for Minerva listening to her.

Minerva mumbled a hasty apology and got to her feet. Tom had been searching the room for her with his eyes and he nodded somewhat guardedly at her when she arrived. The reason for that guardedness was the huge amount of students in the Great Hall and she knew it, but she needed to reassure herself that he was really there and not going anywhere. As such, she flung her arms around his neck and held him close. He stiffened in surprise.

Whispers rose up from the tables "inappropriate conduct" and "does she care about propriety at all?"

Tom heard it and shot angry glares. The whispers quieted somewhat but the stares stayed.

"Come on," he told Minerva, who was still clinging to him. This was most unlike her. "We will settle this outside."

* * *

Outside, he held her at arm's length. "What's wrong?" he questioned carefully. "Was it Davies? Did he do something to you?" Something else occurred to him and he frowned. "Is it- do you have feelings for someone else?" A spike of jealousy, dark and unexpected rose up in him, choking him in dark fury. Minerva was his. And no one else's.

Minerva, much to his consternation, gave a choked laugh and came abruptly close again, burying her face in his neck. Tom stiffened slightly. It was not as if he didn't enjoy having her close, but he had never been particularly used to physical affection. Miss Cole's idea of affection was not bringing the Minister with his cane along and instead opting for a book, which served to give nice book-sized bruises as well.

"Oh Tom." She sounded almost hysterically amused.

"I would never even look at someone else twice, while I have you. Please just promise me something."

He gazed down at her, feeling confused, a feeling he greatly disliked for it implied having no control. "Yes?"

"Promise me that we will be alright."

"Of course we will be alright," Tom replied in slight irritation and applied his trademark sarcasm because he couldn't understand the cause for her distress.

"Pray tell me, why wouldn't we be? Of course the world's a mess right now, London is lying in ruins, Grindelwald is still out there, but why should that deter us from being alright?"

Minerva shook her head fiercely. Some dark strands fell out of her bun and Tom had to suppress the impish school-boy urge to pick the pins from her hair so it would fall freely. Her misery surprised him, for she was much like him in that aspect; saving distressed times and thoughts for the privacy of her room.

"Don't ask," she whispered and bit down on her fist to keep a sob from coming out, "just don't ask."

Tom allowed her to drown her sobs in his shoulder. His eyes suddenly locked on Professor's Dumbledore's face, who had emerged from the corridor to Tom's right, evidently on his way to the Great Hall to relieve the Professor, who was overseeing the students.

Dumbledore's stare was ice-like and Tom held it, not even bothering to lay on his charm. It had never worked with Dumbledore anyway. The man had hated him ever since he had first caught sight of him. Tom could do with hate; he knew hate well. Dumbledore gazed at Minerva's shaking form in Tom's arms and Tom felt a spike of possessive anger course through him.

The old fool shouldn't dare to look at his Minerva the wrong way!

But now was not the time for such sentiments. Making sure that nothing of his contempt showed on his face, Tom continued to stare at the Professor neutrally. Then, after a long while, he broke eye contact and guided Minerva, who was still sobbing brokenly, to the outside.

Maybe some fresh air would do her good and even if Tom didn't know what was wrong, he'd find out. Maybe it was the time to show her this month. She'd never depended more on him. Maybe.

Albus Dumbledore looked after the two of them and frowned.

* * *

Outside, Tom sat Minerva down in the stands of the Quidditch Stadium, casting a charm on them so they would be protected from the storm that was still going on strongly and waited until she had calmed herself. Then he asked with a touch of impatience: "Minerva, what on earth is going on with you? Did the old fool do something to make you feel that way?"

Minerva frowned heavily and shot Tom a dark glare- trust him to mock Dumbledore while simultaneously inquiring after her well-being.

"No," she said, attempting to get herself under control, feeling some embarrassment rise up within her for the way she'd been acting; but then again it just got too much…too much for her to hold in.

"No, he did not," she repeated slowly and thought of the conversation she had had with her esteemed Professor. The thought of her made her feel sick and angered; she had never thought Professor Dumbledore to be capable of such actions. Gitta had been a defenceless woman and Professor Dumbledore had sent her away, for the pupils' safety or so he'd said. But how was he to know that Gitta's motives hadn't been more honourable than what he had given her credit for? Maybe she'd actually discovered Grindelwald's evil and had wanted to make amends.

Feeling deeply betrayed by the man she held in such esteem, she proceeded to tell Tom everything about Gitta's visit and Dumbledore's doings with her. Maybe as a sort of revenge on Professor Dumbledore's confidence when she didn't even know if she could trust Tom to be completely honest with her either? She couldn't have said.

When he had digested the information offered to him so freely, Tom sat back with a calculating glimmer in his eyes.

"So you actually understood it," he said in quiet satisfaction.

"Are you talking about your contempt for Professor Dumbledore? Rest assured, I most definitely don't, Tom. He is a great wizard and a very wise man that I hold in high esteem."

Minerva brushed the last of her tears away brusquely; she couldn't afford to show any weakness in the inevitable argument that would follow.

"A wise man!" Tom scoffed. "A wise man, for whom people are mere marionettes. Tell me, Minerva, did he ever genuinely care about what happened to Gitta? If he were such a philanthropic as he claims, Minerva, shouldn't he have made sure that nothing happened to Gitta either? No matter his personal feelings towards her even if she is _affiliated with the enemy_." He said that last part mockingly, even derisively.

But Minerva couldn't have offered a real argument in favour of Dumbledore; not when she herself felt the same way.

Lamely, she said: "You are not much better, Tom. Just think about the conversation we had about Myrtle. People are mere means to an end for you, too."

Tom laughed wryly. "Yes," he admitted coldly, "you are right. But I have never claimed to be the benevolent saviour of the world."

"Professor Dumbledore doesn't see himself like that!" Minerva protested hotly.

"Of course not," Tom said smoothly, "it's not like as if the entire wizard world is relying on him to get rid of Grindelwald, is it?"

Minerva gazed out at the Quidditch pitch and smoothed the black skirt of her gymslip down, drawing her robes tighter around her body. Although Tom's warming charm worked wonders, his words made her shiver.

"You might be right about that, Tom," she finally said reluctantly, "But he is a good man nonetheless."

"And again we are at the start of our argument," Tom pointed out smoothly, "at which we uncovered that he allowed an innocent woman to be killed."

Minerva had nothing she could possibly say to that, so she remained silent.

"It's such a waste," Tom mused and brushed his wavy fringe of dark hair away from his eyes and back into his customary parted hairstyle as he gazed thoughtfully at the Quidditch pitch.

"A waste?" Minerva repeated incredulously. "You are referring to Gitta's death as a waste? It's a tragedy, Tom, not a waste."

"She could have done great things in her life. I am sure Grindelwald did not choose her as his lover merely for her looks. So yes, a waste. What good did dying do her?"

Minerva's eyes widened at his cold words. "I am aware of your utilitarian point of view, Tom, but do you have to apply it to people as well?" She was hard-pressed to hold back her disbelief. This was a very cold look at the world.

"Everything is a matter of utility, Minerva. And dying equals a utility of zero;" Tom replied mercilessly.

"Dying is a natural process!" Minerva protested.

Tom smirked. "Yes, but completely useless."

"Death is a journey we must all take," she continued on, completely ignoring him. "And after our deaths, our bodies turn to dust. Something new may be created from this dust- it might be a beautiful flower. Isn't it wonderful to be able to be a part of this?"

Tom had paled rapidly at her words and he clenched his fists almost painfully. An ugly sneer was on his features and Minerva knew that her words had hit home. Enraged to the point that it was actually visible, the cold demeanour having disappeared completely and the London accent thickening, he eventually choked out: "I presume the words you just said to me are those of the old fool?"

Professor Dumbledore had really said something to this effect to Minerva once and she had allowed her own words to be influenced by the conversation she had had with the Professor, yet she wasn't about to say so.

"Those are my own words," she said strongly.

"Then I pity you, "Tom whispered scathingly, his anger audible in his voice; "for you have allowed yourself to be corrupted by the old coot more than you know. There is nothing useful about death. Excuse me for not wanting to turn into a flowerpot. And how would you know that everyone shares your happy views on Death? I saw the twisted bodies of children in London, features burned and unrecognisable; some only five years old. Do you think they would have wanted to die? Do you truly think anyone wants to die?" The last part had been an enraged scream.

Shocked by his anger- she hadn't known that this would upset him so, she backpedalled.

"I don't think those children wanted to die, Tom."

However, she had refused to concede regarding his view of death and he knew as much.

Tom turned away from her for a second, undoubtedly calming himself, leaving Minerva to ponder what had happened. This was a side of Tom he rarely showed, buried underneath his sarcasm and cool as it was, but Minerva knew he felt strongly about things, more so than other people.

"Anyway," Tom continued eventually, a lot calmer, "you would agree with me that Professor Dumbledore is not the shining hero as whom you would have liked to see him?"

Minerva turned her eyes away and did not look at Tom.

"Thought so," he stated and there was a sense of amused satisfaction in his voice.

* * *

**Hogwarts, Classroom 4F, November 12th, 1941**

It was near- dark outside, despite it being barely 4 pm. Minerva, sitting behind a desk and looking out of the window, frowned. She disliked winter, hated the cold, the darkness and the constant sense of tiredness and world weariness that came in stride, at least for her. As she watched, icy winds blew cascades of snow up in the air and pelted ice chunks against the windows of the proud school.

She knew that they would withstand the onslaught. Hogwarts had ever felt more like home to her than the hostile atmosphere of the place where home ought to be and she was certain, that nothing would ever be able to penetrate Hogwarts's strong walls; no bad spell, no dark magic, nothing. She was safe here. At the front, Professor Binns was going on about….something.

"And now, class, we shall concern ourselves with the goblin revolution of 1588, at which a goblin named Earik the Fearsome led a small band…"

"I thought the guy last week was called Earik the Fearsome, too," a voice behind Minerva whispered. Looking up, she saw that it was James Taylor, who gave her a cheeky smile. Recognising his cheek and bored by the lesson, she decided to humour him.

"No, that was Fridwulf the Gruesome. How could you have forgotten?"

James gasped dramatically. "How could I have forgotten, indeed?" Minerva couldn't help but laugh at his antics. Although she didn't care much for the fact that James was a terrible gossip, the jokes of her fellow Prefect could always make her laugh.

"Miss McGonagall? I hope you have paid attention to what I have just said?"

Professor Binns was renowned for not noticing students' chatter even when its volume was loud enough to drown him out, yet he was also renowned for noticing about once in a year when someone had disrupted his class. It seemed as if she was the lucky one this time.

Sheepishly, Minerva looked at her hands, hoping furtively that the Professor would maybe just vanish if she didn't raise her eyes.

The sound of a knock on the door saved her the embarrassment. Watching as Professor Binns floated over to the door, his billowing robes doing nothing to conceal the fact that he was indeed wearing knee-breeches the color of eggshells, complete with a tie that looked as if it had been fashionable in the late 17th Century, Minerva hoped that whoever it was he would take his time.

She nudged the boy sitting in front of her. Gordon McDonalds was a good friend of Justin Miller and not a particularly good acquaintance of her, but he was rather neutral towards her; not unfriendly but not friendly either.

There were many in Gryffindor House who didn't like her relationship with Tom, some out of jealousy others out of some misconceived perception of house loyalty.

"Gordon!" When he half-turned to her, she prompted: "What did the Professor say?" At his blank look, she sighed. "Before."

"Oh, that." After he'd told her, Minerva was surprised to see that his murky green eyes were still fixed on her. She took a deep breath, feeling irritation bubble up in her. She had never been good with people and preferred silence to small talk and silence to unnecessary questions.

Realising that Gordon was still staring at her, she sighed yet again, this time impatiently.

"What do you want?"

"Just remember, McGonagall," Gordon said finally in his hoarse voice, "that Gryffindor is your house. Fraternizing with the enemy will get you nowhere, except being shunned."

Minerva gave an incredulous snort. "So this is what this is about? House loyalty? Rest assured, Gordon," she spat, "that I live for Gryffindor. Probably more than you do."

"Good." He nodded, satisfied. "But I'm not the one who needs convincing."

With that, he turned around. Minerva shot another disbelieving look at him, but then she became aware of all the eyes on her back. She turned around, but no-one was looking at her. All were bent over their parchments rolls.

Defiantly, she turned and stared down at the smooth dark surface of the desk. So what? She didn't need their approval. They all didn't know Tom like she did. Putting the transfiguration book on her desk with a loud thunk, she willed her hands to stop shaking.

* * *

After the class Minerva was walking along a corridor, intent on getting to her Transfiguration class, when she heard them. In hindsight that was when it all went to hell.

She was busy trying to secure her bag at her side, when she became aware of Abraxas and Felicius Malfoy standing right around the corner. A sudden instinct made her stay where she was. They seemed to be in the middle of a conversation. Felicius spoke up, his voice questioning.

"There will be a meeting then, at eight, on Monday? At the usual place…" was all she heard before Abraxas shushed his little brother angrily and the two of them walked away.

"A meeting," she mumbled dazedly to herself. Suddenly determined, she pushed herself to her feet. There was something to be done and it could not wait. Not after what she had heard now because if it meant that Tom was involved in it…Everything crashed down on her out of the sudden and Minerva bit back a desperate sob.

The early evening found her waiting in front of the Slytherin Common Room, hidden in the shadows of a statue, waiting for the Malfoy brothers to appear. She was concealed well in her animagus form. The caretaker had lots of cats and no one seemed to be able to keep track of them, so her animagus form worked perfectly.

Minerva didn't have to wait long until the two familiar blond heads of hair appeared, shooting furtive glances. She waited until they had disappeared around a corner and followed. Her paws were nearly noiseless on the stone floor. Down and down they went, around corners and into corridors Minerva had never seen before. This was all under the lake, she knew, and so deep in the heart of Slytherin that she had never been here before. How could she.

Then, the Malfoys abruptly stopped. Abraxas, murmuring some quiet words, tapped his wand on a portrait that was too faded for Minerva to make out who it had shown once upon a time. A room with stone beams ending high up in the walls and bathed in the light of torches was revealed. The torches gave off a green light that shimmered oddly on the bare stone walls.

In hindsight, it had all been too easy. In hindsight, she knew that she should have fled immediately. But as such, she padded closer carefully.

* * *

Twelve chairs stood on both sides of a long table, facing the thirteenth one at the head of the table. Minerva recognised some faces; there was Abraxas Malfoy, Fitzwilliam Avery, Acestes Nott and Nefarius Lestrange as well as a few she did only know by sight, not being particularly well acquainted with all members of Slytherin house.

And at the head of the table there was…with a sickened feeling she stared. There was him. Tom. Her Tom, handsome face set in a look of boredom as he surveyed the chatter of his classmates. He supported his chin on a propped-up arm, seemingly no part of the conversation that was going on around him. Yet Minerva had a feeling that this was an illusion for Tom was in spite of seeming to be on the edges of conversation the centre of the room.

From time to time, one of the Slytherins would glance up, look in his direction and when Tom gave a benevolent-looking smile, would hastily turn back to his conversation. Tom controlled everything. Minerva's whiskers trembled with that realisation and her fur stood up on end as if a cold gust of air had hit her.

Tom cleared his throat and all chatter was suddenly gone. All Slytherins seated at the table turned to face him as he spoke.

"My dear friends, we are gathered here today to mark the beginning of a great task. A task the mighty Salazar Slytherin himself endowed us with. We are to restore the wizard world to a state of purity. A state of age-old wisdom and pure bloodlines."

Minerva trembled as the seated applauded loudly. The applause rang in her ears, eerie like a death sentence. This was not her Tom. This couldn't be her Tom.

"We will begin this task by ridding the wizarding world of those who do not belong here. Those who call themselves fair and kind, yet look down on us all the same just for belonging to the noble house of Salazar Slytherin. They are the same persons who allow the purity of the wizarding world to be vilified by bad blood."

Minerva's feeling of acute sickness increased. This was horrible. She had never known that the Slytherins felt that way- the thought sprang to the forefront of her mind- was it actually hers and all the other Gryffindors' fault that they felt that way? But no, they were not to be blamed for the age-old prejudices that were running rampant in that house. Slytherin was to be blamed- and Tom.

She had heard enough. With that thought in mind she wanted to slip away, when suddenly Tom spoke again, this time with a softer, warmer touch to his voice.

"Ah Minerva," he said slowly. "How wonderful of you to join us tonight. I've missed you."

* * *

_tbc..._

**_A review would make my day!_**


	16. 1941 Part VI

_Hello :) Thank you everyone, for your wonderful reviews! Thank you, **hpfan, PottyParker, Sarafina, Sarah, Megii** and **Anne**! You are the best and you really brightened my week up :)_

_Now I can't wait to see what you think of this chapter! Reviews are so wonderful and they make me write much quicker.  
_

_Important side notice here: No, Minerva will not turn dark. Also, Tom is still on his way to becoming Voldemort. Just what I wanted to tell you; oh, and keep in mind when reading this: Tom is the epitome of a Slytherin and they are nothing but crafty and insidious :)_

_Sachita :)_

* * *

**Chapter Fifteen**

**Hogwarts, November 12th, 1941**

_"Ah Minerva," he said slowly. "How wonderful of you to join us tonight. I've missed you."_

Minerva's only instinct in that moment was to run, but she could not move her paws.

"Aren't you a smart tabby cat, Minnie?" Tom said amusedly and Minerva recognised that it was not shock that made her unable to move, but the wandless body-binding charm Tom had cast on her without saying a word. Terror rose up inside of her and she tried to scream, only to discover that he'd cast a _Silencio _on her as well.

The Slytherins at the table had turned to her and eyed her in undisguised curiosity, some with apathy in their eyes, others with undisguised disdain.

The boy, who sat on the right next to Tom's now vacated place, spoke up. The dark shock of hair and the raven-feather-like eyebrows made Minerva recognise him as Antonin Dolohov, the only one among those gathered who she would actually label as something like Tom's friend. "What shall we do with her, Tom?"

For some reason, Minerva registered a stirring of uneasiness among the Slytherins gathered as Antonin spoke Tom's first name so casually. Tom, however, showed no sign of ill will.

"I'll deal with this after the meeting is finished, Antonin. If you would be so kind, take Minerva outside for a few minutes and see to it that our guest stays."

Antonin nodded, while Tom sent him a nod of acknowledgement in return. Minerva struggled as she was picked up and dumped rather unceremoniously just outside the door that swung shut behind them, muffling any sound that might have escaped. Antonin looked down at her with a raised eyebrow. "So you are an Animagus, McGonagall. Well, I can either deliver a monologue or you could change back and we could have an actual conversation."

Fear was slowly transforming into fury. How was she supposed to change back with that immobilising body-binding charm on her? Antonin seemed to understand. With a nonchalant flick of his wand he removed the charm. "There you are," he said condescendingly.

Minerva changed back, straightening her rumpled clothes, but when she inconspicuously tried to get to her wand, Antonin reacted. "_Expelliarmus_," he said calmly and Minerva's wand flew into his hand. He pocketed it with a smug grin.

Trembling all over, Minerva backed away until she hit the wall behind her. "So," she asked in a valiant effort to hide her terror, "why do you do this? I thought you to be smarter than to believe in terrorising innocent people."

Antonin didn't seem offended. "You don't understand," he told her slowly, reaching up to ruffle his hair in deep thought. "I believe in Tom. He wants to change the world. All those old, set structures- the Ministry and those old elites, yes, also my parents, suppressing the rest of the wizard population. It needs to change, I am sure you can see that too."

Minerva thought of her mother, so set in her ways and convinced that she was better than anyone else, but she banished the thought quickly. "And what about the muggleborns? Are you planning to exterminate them?"  
Antonin actually looked uncomfortable. "No, I don't want to kill them. But they need to disappear from the wizarding world. They taint it with their blood, can't you see that?"

"You are obsessed, the lot of you!" Minerva cried, her foolish Gryffindor courage sparking up when she least needed it. "They are people like you and me, how can you say that they are any different? How dare you take their right to do magic away? How dare you talk of suppressing them? Those old structures with their conservative ways need to change, yes, but not like that! Radicalism never changes anything, just look at Grindelwald! Do you want to end up like him?"

Antonin opened his mouth to argue. He looked mad. But before he could say anything, Tom swept out of the room. The Slytherins disappeared down a corridor and Tom waited until they were out of sight.

* * *

Then he nodded at Antonin. "You can go."

Antonin seemed doubtful. "Are you sure, Tom?"

"Yes," Tom snapped in annoyance. "I am sure. Go."

Antonin, with a last look at Minerva, too disappeared around a corner.

Tom meanwhile came closer to her with a predatory look in his eyes. Minerva shivered and pressed herself tighter against the wall. Was this the boy she was in love with? The boy, whose kisses burned like fire?

Her witty, intelligent Tom?

It couldn't be. How could she have been so blind? Yet the thought that he was pure evil hurt her in worse ways than she could have imagined. She couldn't fool herself; even now she longed to touch him, longed to talk him, longed for him to tell her that all she had seen was not real.

"Minerva," Tom said, stopping just a few centimetres in front of her face. Then he lowered his head to kiss her. The kiss was searing, burning, and Minerva found herself get lost in Tom's intensity, until she pushed him back bodily. "No."

Tom looked offended.

"No? This is the old fool talking again, isn't it? I know this might all sound horrible to your ears. But why can't you see? Dark magic is not always bad. We can change the world, Minerva! I have visions of discovering things about magic not even Dumbledore knows about! We can make everything better. Those pureblood ideals," he laughed briefly, "I told you that Riddle is not a wizard's surname, is it? Well, so why would you think I believe in them? Wouldn't that be completely hypocritical of me, being a half-blood myself?"

Minerva, now that she was on familiar grounds in spite of the grotesqueness of the scene she had stumbled into, snapped: "You are a hypocrite, Tom. Playing the poor orphan, while you are secretly planning the destruction of our world."

Again, Tom, seemingly completely unaffected, laughed shortly. "Not the _destruction_, dear Minerva. I am planning its _reformation_."

"By hurting innocents?" Minerva laughed shrilly, hysterically. "You are crazy!"

Ignoring her, Tom stepped closer. A mad glint danced through his midnight eyes. "Join me, Minerva. Join me and we can be together forever."

Minerva, trembling with hurt and devastation, tears pricking just behind her eyelids, raised her hand and slapped him with all the force she could muster.

He stood, surprised and shocked while a red handprint formed on his pale cheek.

Minerva turned and ran, sobs tearing at her as she ran away. Tom stood motionless and watched her go.

* * *

**Hogwarts, November 26th, 1941**

She had tried. Oh, she had tried. She had even been standing in front of Dumbledore's office a few days ago, had even knocked. But then, when the Professor had opened and she had looked into his kindly blue eyes, what had come over her lips had been: "Professor, I have a question about the essay assignment you gave us." Then, she'd mindlessly prattled on about the stupid essay, when all that had been going through her head had been _"Tom is evil Tom is evil, Tom Tom Tom…"_

"Are you feeling quite alright?" Professor Dumbledore had asked. "You do look pale, my dear."

Minerva had stammered something about feeling fine and then she, once again, had run. She was a coward for Tom was truly evil and it was her duty to tell it to someone. But her heart protested against it. She didn't want him to get expelled. Wasn't she a hypocrite as well? Applying her ideals to everyone else, but when it came to matters that concerned only her alone she couldn't bring herself to actually abide by her own rules? Dear Merlin, she was a hypocrite.

With these thoughts in mind, she wandered to her Defence Against The Dark Arts class, looking and feeling more like a spectre than an actual person.

She passed many students in the corridors and fancied that they were looking at her oddly. Poppy had told her that she looked ill. She was not ill.

She felt as if she was going insane and she also felt as if everyone knew about it. As if it said on bold letters on her forehead that she, Minerva McGonagall, Gryffindor Prefect and always adamant about adhering to her principles, was betraying those very principles, was betraying them all. Yet then, Tom's handsome face danced through her mind and she knew that she still loved him. Loved him so much that it actually hurt her more than she could have said.

Good Merlin. What was she to do?

"You are late, Miss McGonagall," Professor Merrythought said, as Minerva opened the door.

"Yes, Ma'am," Minerva mumbled and sat down at the back of the class. "Sorry, Ma'am."

Professor Merrythought looked at her oddly, but did not comment further. Instead, she clapped her hands and raised her eyebrows underneath her grey mop of hair, sharp green eyes twinkling energetically.

"Alright, class, I have chosen your duel partners for the series of duels. Those duels, which I have announced to you before will start today."

Duels? Minerva wondered numbly. Oh, right.

Professor Merrythought had indeed been announcing that there would be a series of duels, starting today. Normally, Minerva would be excited about it. But there was no normality for her these days.

A dry sob shook her and she tried to mask it as a cough. Silly tears, they came so often these days.

Professor Merrythought's wrinkly face showed traces of definite excitement now, as she continued. "I have your duel partners right here." She drew out a quill and Minerva felt how the queasy feeling in the pit of her stomach intensified. The duel partners included all students from fifth year up, Houses of no consequence.

Minerva didn't feel up to a duel, but she knew that the queasy feeling in her stomach had nothing to do with that.

She bit her bottom lip.

"We've charmed the quill to randomly put two students together. Let's begin with Mister Justin Miller!" Justin was partnered with Myleena O'Reilly and he huffed in annoyance, his freckled face screwed up in irritation. Myleena, for all her attitude, was said to be good at duels. Minerva noted the dismayed expression on Justin's face carefully, but she was not really paying attention, not while her thoughts wandered again to Professor Dumbledore's office.

She should have said something. Merlin knew, Tom's plans were crazy, horrifying even. But she hadn't said anything. She was a coward. She-

"Minerva McGonagall," the quill wrote into the air in a flowing golden script and James Taylor nudged her.

"Minerva, it's your turn. Pay attention. I am wondering who you'll be partnered up with. Merlin knows, I got Antonin Dolohov, so one of the worst is already gone…"

Minerva stared, ignoring James completely. "T," the quill slowly wrote. "O." _No no no_ _! _"M"- Minerva exhaled. She didn't need to see the rest to know that, written in the air was now "Minerva McGonagall and Tom Marvolo Riddle".

Some students whistled in appreciation. Everyone was eager to see the two best students of the entire school compete.

"Oh, bad luck," James said sympathetically. Minerva didn't seem to be able to find the words to tell him how right he was.

She felt numb, only looking up again when Professor Merrythought announced the dates of the duels. Minerva's name was one of the last to be called.

"Ah, Miss McGonagall," Professor Merrythought said and surveyed her with a frown. "Dear, are you alright? You are awfully pale."

"I am fine," Minerva said mechanically.

"Well, Miss McGonagall, I hope you are, for your duel will be- today. Remember," Professor Merrythought said sternly, "only non-violent spells are allowed. We don't want anyone to be hurt."

"Why should she hurt him, he is her bloody boyfriend," Justin Miller yelled nastily. Professor Merrythought shot a glare that quietened him instantly. Minerva looked at the floor and tried to calm herself.

_Here goes nothing_, she thought.

* * *

Minerva took a deep breath and pushed her messy braid over her shoulder, not having bothered with her bun today. Poppy, from where she was standing amidst the Gryffindors who had come to watch the duel, threw her a concerned look.

With a pang of guilt, Minerva thought of the many times she had pushed Poppy away in the last weeks, when the latter had been trying to find out what Minerva was so troubled about. She vowed to change her behaviour toward her friend as soon as possible. But for now…she had to do this.

"I bet on McGonagall," she heard as a whisper from the mass of pupils around the table. "No," another voice replied. "Riddle is much better, she doesn't stand a chance." Minerva ignored them.

Standing opposite of her on the duelling table was Tom, looking totally composed as he assessed her calmly. A few younger girls gazed adoringly up at him. He did look dashing on this day, a small part of Minerva's brain mumbled unhelpfully, standing there tall and handsome with his dark hair brushed back in his customary parted hairstyle, Slytherin robes immaculate and twirling his wand idly through his pale long fingers.

Tom didn't acknowledge any of the girls. His look was unyielding and solely focused on Minerva, who tried her best to calm her raging thoughts.

"Alright, duellists, prepare!" Professor Merrythought's sharp voice rang through the hall. Tom walked toward the middle of the table with measured steps. Minerva straightened her robes and did the same.

"Wands at the ready!" Tom held his wand nonchalantly. However, his eyes were glowing with too many emotions for Minerva to name as he looked at her. Minerva's hand trembled a she presented her wand to Tom, her eyes never leaving his face.

"Bow," Professor Merrythought commanded. Minerva and Tom offered each other a curt bow of acknowledgement. They were so close that their heads nearly touched, when Tom whispered a:

"Minerva, I need to talk to you."

"That's what Dolohov told me and my answer is still the same," Minerva replied at the same volume. It was true; she had sent Antonin Dolohov away quite often in the last weeks, upset that Tom didn't deem her important enough to come himself. _No_, a nasty voice whispered in her head, _you should stop this infatuation with him immediately and go to Professor Dumbledore with your knowledge!_

Tom frowned heavily. "Minerva…"

"Now, step back." Ignoring him, Minerva stepped back and went into the traditional duellist posture. Tom, opposite of her, did the same.

"On a count of three…."

"One."

Minerva caught Tom's eyes. He looked oddly pleading, she thought, but she knew what she had to do even though it nearly tore her apart when she looked at him.

"Two."

Tom's pleading look was gone, his face a stony mask as he looked coldly at her. The look bit through Minerva more than any fancy spell could have.

"Three."

"_Expelliarmus_!" Minerva shouted.

"_Protego_!" Tom came back and then, quickly: "_Mobilicorpus_!"

Minerva was lifted rather unceremoniously into the air and thrown a good few metres. The fall shuddered through her and made her groan quietly. She got to her feet quickly, although now her head was spinning.

The spells they had just exchanged were second-year-spells and she knew that Tom would not stick to that level for long.

"_Petrificus_ _Totalus_!" Minerva cried. Tom dodged the spell and raised his wand above his head. Minerva only had time to see his concentrated expression before he spoke: "_Fiendfyre_!"

A wall of flames raced towards Minerva, who quickly snapped "_Aquamenti_!" The flames stayed strong though, still approaching quickly. Minerva squeezed her eyes shut and concentrated on water, thought of air being transformed into water, thought of pouring rain and "_AQUAMENTI_!"  
She opened her eyes to see that everyone was drenched, including Tom opposite of her, who glared at her sullenly, wiping his wet strands of hair out of his face.

"_Levicorpus_!" Minerva bit out and Tom was suddenly dangling upside-down in the air before he landed on the table with a loud thud. Raising himself on one knee, caught in the untidy mess of his robes, his glare was decidedly angry now. Minerva didn't hear him say anything. He just flicked his wrist and Minerva was suddenly enveloped in a water bubble that rotated wildly through the room. She began to feel dizzy. "_Diffindo_!" But the water bubble wouldn't let her go. She recognised Tom, just outside the water bubble and extended her arm to pull him inside. Tom for the first moments looked as disoriented as he felt, water still dripping from his robes and hair.

"Now we can talk," Minerva told Tom. They were still spinning madly through the room in the water bubble, the people outside a mere blur. Tom caught her by the arms and responded by placing a burning kiss on her mouth. "How I've missed you, Minerva…"

Minerva pushed him away, the water walls around them upsetting her balance and thoughts. "No," she forced out.

"Let me explain, Minerva," Tom bade surprisingly gently. "Please. I don't want to lose you."

Minerva concentrated on all the magic she had within her and the water bubble burst into brilliant soap bubbles, releasing them instantly.

They both fell a few feet to the table below. Gasps came from the right and left. Minerva recovered faster than Tom and got up, looking at him as he slowly got to his feet as well, dark hair a mess and face flushed. Everything inside of her cried out to go to him and hold him tight, yet the restraint was greater. She had seen what he was capable of and still she loved him, loved him so much.

But there was no way this could continue.

"You already lost me," she whispered, aware that he could hear her. Then, she raised her wand.

"_Stupefy._" Caught in his surprise and his balance offset, Tom teetered to the side and then took a tumble off the table, hitting his head on the way down.

Ignoring her pang of guilt and the cries of the bystanders, Minerva jumped off the table. His face was the only thing she could see as everything else dissolved once again in a flood of tears.

For the second time this month, she ran from him.

* * *

**Gryffindor Sixth-Years-Dormitory, December 5th, 1941**

_Minerva was standing in a cornfield that was shockingly yellow against a storm-cloud darkened sky. Wind was tearing at her hair, harsh and unyielding. Then it started to rain, little missiles that hurtled at her cheeks with the force of the wind, sharp and stinging._

"_Tom betrayed you," a scarecrow to her right sang, bowing to her with its silk hat that had been perched on top of his round straw head before. It was wearing an old-fashioned black frock rock with a huge red bow around its neck._

"_Am I going insane?" Minerva wondered loudly. "Is this a dream?"_

"_Oh, there is an "in" in "insane" is there not? That means you are actually in good sanity, insane, do you get it?" The scarecrow cackled madly. A burst of lightning and the ensuing clap of thunder seemed to tear the sky apart. Minerva felt how tears started to run down her face, choking her._

"_So it's true? He is evil?"_

"_Evil," the scarecrow told her sincerely, "is just a matter of definition."_

"_Well, there is no question," Minerva whispered and she held her face up in the rain. "Tom is evil."_

_And then, when she looked again, the scarecrow had vanished and its place stood Tom, terrifyingly pale and devastatingly handsome, his black hair forming an intense contrast to the pallor of his face. He was smiling at her slowly, not evilly at all. Darkness was encroaching from all sides, starting to hide him from view. Still, he kept on smiling even as the darkness settled on his form like a cloak would, effectively claiming him as its master._

_And through the darkness he extended a hand still with that damnable smile, beckoning to her, asking her to join him, to be his forever…_

* * *

Minerva awoke with a horrible gasp, bathed in sweat. Her nightdress was clinging to her thin body and her breaths came in short gasps. When she opened her eyes she realised that it was evening.

No one was in the dormitory save for her. It had to be dinner-time...She must have fallen asleep…due to her state of over-exhaustion, she supposed. What a horrible dream…but then it was no novelty. Her dreams were often like that ever since her discovery of Tom's activities. A good night's sleep was something she hadn't come by in far too long by now.

She still hadn't gone to Dumbledore and that, combined with thoughts of Tom, robbed her of her sleep. She'd tried to justify it by telling herself, that she would wait until Tom was out of the hospital wing where he'd ended up to stay for a few days after their duel, having hit his head so hard that he'd actually been unconscious. However, he had been released for a few days by now and she still hadn't been to see Professor Dumbledore.

Wearily she got up, trying to detangle her long dark mess of hair, standing in front of the mirror in the Sixth-Years-Girls Dormitory. Since she wore it up in a bun so often and had also fallen asleep with that bun, it was hopelessly belligerent. Dragging the comb through her hair hurt and made her eyes sting.

At least that was how she explained the sudden tears that leaked from her eyes to herself. But of course it was not about her hair comb. It was about Tom, it had always been about Tom. Gitta Scraviani had been right about him from the start and she had been hopelessly wrong. No one was in the dormitory because they were at lunch and so she didn't bother to hide her miserable thoughts and loneliness from herself.

"Minerva."

That had sounded like Tom's voice, just like he would always sound when he said her name. She had never heard anyone else say her name like that; soft and wistfully-spoken as if it was a piece of art rather than a quite odd name for a girl.

"Minerva."

Great. Now she had delusions.

Was she going mad?

She had felt like it over the course of the last days, as if caught in a never-ending vicious circle of denial and bitter acceptance of the truth. Sometimes she'd even mumbled that truth to herself, late at night, when the others slept or so she thought:"He is evil." But Aimee must have heard her for she kept giving Minerva those strange worried kind of looks.

She was going mad only thinking about it. It robbed her of sleep and she had nodded off twice in her classes the last weeks. Professor Dumbledore kept gazing at her as if she was mad, too. Was she mad? A hysterical laugh broke over her lips. Hysterical laughter sure was a sign for madness as were delusions and talking to oneself. Another hysterical laugh came and then she couldn't stop laughing until tears ran down her cheeks strongly.

* * *

"Minerva! Minerva! Can't you hear me?"

She was definitely insane, but she turned in the direction the voice was coming from nevertheless.

And there he was, like a pale spectre, standing in the door-frame. Minerva screamed and the comb fell from her numb fingers.

"Minerva." He approached and there was concern in his eyes. He was pale, too pale, she realised, and looked nearly as deranged as the reflection in the mirror that was hers these days. His blue eyes were bloodshot and the hair looked as if he had spent the last week running his fingers through it in nervous thought while his tie was undone and his shirt hung out of his waistband.

"Stay away from me!" she shouted hysterically and picked the comb up to throw it at him since she honestly couldn't remember where she had put her wand to.

"Minerva." A slight flick of his wand and the comb went flying over his head. "Please, just listen to me." Hearing Tom plead was very odd and definitely out of character for him, but she couldn't have cared less. Mad she might be but she hadn't lost all her senses. Wouldn't he want to silence her for all she had seen?

"Kill me if you want to!" she screamed at him then and the hysteria that she had kept at bay so far bubbled over. Combined with her sleeplessness it made her cry harder than she could ever remember crying. Through her sobs, she could only make his tall form out as a blurred shape and she threw herself at this shape, attacking him with her fists. "You destroyed everything! Everything!"

Tom stopped her attack finally with brute force and held her wrists in a tight grip. He was stronger than he looked- the slimness belied the physical strength that lay beneath.

He looked broken, defeated even as he looked at Minerva, who was struggling with tears in her eyes.

"I am sorry," he told her and worst of all it still sounded sincere.

"No, you are not," Minerva choked out, the sobs returning full force.

"Let me explain," he bade softly and sat her down on her bed, still keeping her wrists in her tight grip as he sat down beside her. "The story starts, as so many do, at the very beginning…"

Tom took a deep breath. "The Muggles were the first who taught me to hate. My upbringing made me feel so much hate at everyone who had ever harmed me. There was a man who often visited the orphanage, a Minister, who used to punish us if he found us at fault. Me, well," he gave a self-deprecating laugh, "he thought I was evil. My magic he interpreted as sign of that evilness. A bad apple, he used to say. Corporeal punishment was his way of getting evil out of me. Once, he even broke my arm. Miss Cole, well, she didn't care much about what happened to us as long as she had a bottle of whiskey nearby. She liked to hit people with books though. There was no one who showed kindness to me, not ever."

Minerva had fallen silent, her sobs quietened somewhat. Tom tried to put his arm around her, but she pushed him away, sitting up straighter and listening quietly, although every fibre of her being screamed out at her to leave Tom alone and go with her knowledge to Professor Dumbledore.

Satisfied that she was at least listening to him, Tom continued.

"Then one day, Professor Dumbledore came along. He told me I was to go to Hogwarts. I didn't believe him. I thought he was a mad-doctor and would collect me to bring me to a psychiatric clinic, getting the evil out of me just like Minister Brown had always said."

His eyes took on a haunted quality as he recounted what was obviously true.

"Have you ever been to a Muggle psychiatric clinic, Minerva? Let me assure you they are quite unpleasant places, full of deranged doctors and torture devices. Muggles are barbaric…"

At these words Minerva demonstratively put space between them and Tom sighed wearily.

"Yes, I know you defend them, Minerva. Anyway, what I wanted to tell you is…I came to Hogwarts, expecting to be at home among my kind. Instead, the Slytherins shunned me, telling me that they would never accept a dirty half-blood in their midst."

She stared at him and Tom smiled in wry amusement: "I told you the last time I saw you. Do you truly think those crazed notions of pure blood supremacy mean anything to me? But I did need a way of convincing them to accept me, to make them see my visions as their own."

Minerva's voice was hoarse owing to her previous flood of tears but she held her head high: "Your visions!" she spat. "Are your visions to bring such radical change to the wizarding world so that everyone who stands in their way shall be killed?"

Tom gazed at her for a long moment. "No one ever did something for me without expecting anything in return," he said finally slowly and Minerva noticed that in spite of his outward calm, the London accent bled through stronger, which had always been a sign of agitation. "I learned to hate people for what they did to me. I saw the children in Hyde Park walking next to their parents….I-"he faltered.

"You saw them being shown caring," Minerva supplied.

"Yes," Tom said and an odd sort of smile hushed over his face. "That might work. Caring…For a while, I kept waiting for it to come…but instead I only found hate. So I decided to retaliate. I decided that I would get my revenge. On all of them, no matter the cost. But then there is you, Minerva, and you change everything."

Seeing him looking at her like that was enough to make another wave of tears come to her eyes. "Why?"

"Because I need you." It had been stated as a simple fact and Tom's eyes were filled with desire and tortured longing as he gazed at her. His fervent look nearly made him seem deranged and Minerva wondered if she looked equally crazy.

But there wasn't really a choice for her and she had sealed her fate when she hadn't gone to Professor Dumbledore. She couldn't imagine a world without Tom. Maybe there was a way to save him, to show him how wrong he was...

Tom seemed to sense her hesitation because he stepped closer, his midnight eyes imploring.

"I am willing to perform an Unbreakable Vow for you, Minerva…I am willing to swear that I won't hurt any innocents, for I fear you would not believe me otherwise. Change has to come to the wizarding world, but I swear that I am not going to hurt any innocents for it."

She gasped. Sleeplessness coupled with hysteria made her feel as if his words signified their descent into madness. "You cannot mean that."

"I can," Tom replied, his calmness disputing the fact that he had just uttered words of raging madness.

"What is it you want from me, Tom?" Minerva inquired, trembling.

"Stay with me." His words had a nearly hypnotising effect. "Love me for forever."

Minerva, shaken by the force of his words and her own overwhelming emotions, felt that she had no choice at all when it came down to it. She couldn't lose Tom. And thus, Minerva nodded tremulously.

"I shall take you to him then."

"To him?" Minerva asked.

"Antonin Dolohov," Tom explained, "we need a third person for this vow as I am sure you know." He then looked her over critically. "You do look a mess, Minerva, and I am sure I don't look much better."

After a few quick _Scourgifys_, Tom led Minerva down the stairs and out of the Gryffindor Common Room, reacting to the stares they received with a nonchalant one of his own. The Gryffindors were too confused to say anything.

"You do have to tell me, Tom," Minerva mumbled finally in an effort to return to a normal conversation, "how you can slip undetected into Gryffindor Tower."

"That shall remain a secret," Tom replied quietly and the cutting edge to his words rendered any effort on Minerva's part to talk about something normal futile.

"How did you know it was me?" she asked finally when they were out in the quiet corridor.

Tom didn't need any clarifying to know that she meant her Animagus form.

"Simple deduction, Minerva," he explained. "I found a piece of fur that day I rescued you and you were clutching it in your hand. Nagini told me it didn't smell like the fur of a normal cat. It was easy then…it explained why you looked so tired that summer when you didn't talk to me due to the Davies incident. You learned how to become an Animagus…did you only do it to spy on me?" He looked wryly amused. "I feel flattered, though I am supposing Dumbledore put you up to it. Ah. Nothing of that matters now, Minerva, as long as you stay with me."

Minerva could only nod. Tom was brilliant, she had known as much, yet she hadn't expected him to figure it out.

"You have planned this, haven't you? The unbreakable vow, Dolohov's presence?"

Tom seemed as weary as she felt and again she noticed his bloodshot eyes. "Of course, Minerva. I always have a plan. You should know that about me by now."

Minerva could only smile weakly.

He was right about that at least.

* * *

They didn't speak again, until they reached the Room of Requirement that had turned into a plain hall with white statues of long-dead wizards that seemed to gaze accusingly at Minerva. _I am doing the right thing_; Minerva thought and held her head high. _I am going to save Tom. I am going to save him and I am going to manage as much. So maybe he has an agenda, he always does, but I can have one of my own too, no?_ The thoughts filled her, oddly enough, with hope. _I am not going to lose him like Dumbledore lost Grindelwald. _Thinking of Dumbledore made her feel guilty, though she knew that bringing the Head of Gryffindor House and Tom's most despised teacher into this would only make her lose Tom's trust.

Still, she couldn't help but feel a pang of apprehension as Antonin Dolohov withdrew his wand and looked at her searchingly, the mossy green eyes underneath his feather-like eyebrows steely as he gazed at her.

"Tom," he said, his voice echoing oddly in the large empty room, all the while not taking his eyes off Minerva, "are you sure about this?"

He was a head shorter than Tom and Tom merely gazed at him from his superior height, emanating an aura of intimidation. Dolohov looked suitably chastised. "As you wish."

Minerva knew how those vows were made; she had her father talk about them often in a disparaging tone. "An unbreakable vow and people do all kinds of horrifying things," he'd said, referring to his work as an Auror. "Don't you ever let anyone drag you in a situation where you have to commit to an unbreakable vow, Minerva."

Yet she had. And here she was, putting her hand into Tom's larger one. She vowed to herself that night that she wouldn't regret this, for this was her chance to save Tom, given so willingly by him.

"Are you ready?" Antonin Dolohov asked and she nodded while Tom said calmly: "Yes."

"Will you love me forever?" Tom queried simply. "I swear," Minerva said and a thin golden flame shot out of Dolohov's wand as he quietly mumbled the incantation, winding itself around Minerva's wrist. Minerva winced, it stung as if she had been burned.

"Will you stay with me?" Tom queried further, his voice steady. "I swear."

Another golden flame shot out and joined the first one.

Minerva took a deep breath, hoping that she was doing the right thing.

"Will you love me forever?" she asked. Tom's voice didn't waver as he replied. "I swear."

The golden flame that shot out of Dolohov's wand snaked its way around Tom's wrist now. He didn't even wince.

"Do you promise not to hurt any innocents?"

Tom didn't even hesitate. "I swear," he said and the look in his eyes was unflinching as he gazed at Minerva.

The fourth golden flame curled around both Minerva's and Tom's wrists.

For some reason, it stung more than the three before.

* * *

**Great Hall, Hogwarts, December 11th 1941**

The Muggle world was in an uproar. Pensively, Minerva sipped at her black tea, staring at the Daily Prophet's headline. December 7th, 1941, a date that would live in infamy, as the words of the American President Roosevelt had suggested, had been four days before. Minerva felt rather upset about it all, both about the attack on Pearl Harbor and about what would surely follow. So many people were dying now. She thought about Michael- was he still alive, somewhere, out there? She hadn't heard from Abby in far too long. The latest news about the war had come in today.

After war had been declared on Japan Germany had declared war on the United States of America. Did that mean that the USA would enter the war? This war had truly turned global now. What would happen to Great Britain?

And what would happen to the wizard community? Grindelwald's attacks in Central Europe were becoming more and more frequent and increasingly violent and there was word that he would maybe again try to attack Britain. Professor Dumbledore was always in a hurry these days, travelling to important Ministerial meetings, trying to influence the war to their advantage.

Minerva feared for his safety, yet she felt like a traitor as she fingered her wrist. There was no mark on it, of course, nothing that would tell of the unbreakable vow yet she couldn't help but wonder if it had been the right decision after all.

Tom, in spite of this vow, had become someone she couldn't trust. Was there someone who would save Minerva's world?

Tom was watching Minerva from the doors of the Great Hall. He nodded quietly to himself.

Antonin, at his side, raised a questioning eyebrow. "Did you mean it?"

Tom shot him a sharp look. Antonin was the only one he allowed to question his decisions, but that also only to a certain extent.

"I know what I am doing, Antonin. I may have told her too early but I rectified that mistake. As you know, I have not spent those nights in the Library pouring over the Unbreakable Vow for no reason."

Antonin turned a questioning eyebrow on him, not at all put off by the cold tone of voice.

"Yes, but what did you achieve?"

"I gained time," Tom replied shortly, "time to make her understand that there will sometimes be victims on the way to a great vision."

* * *

_tbc..._


	17. 1942 Part I

_Hello everyone! This chapter is a bit less dramatic than the one before, filled with dance and music :)_ _Thank you very much for your reviews, **PottyParker, Sarafina** (your idea is good)**, Reiko Anne, ich simse** (are you maybe German? I am just asking because of your name ;) - and yes, I think you can say Tom's lapse in mental stability is pretty permanent :P) and **Mara**!_

_Hope you like this chapter also :)_

_Sachita :)  
_

* * *

**Chapter Sixteen  
**

**McGonagall Manor, Scotland, ****January ****6th , 1942**

Minerva had been forced to spend the Christmas holidays with her family this year, as her mother had insisted on her coming home. Truth be told, she wasn't all that unhappy about leaving Hogwarts- Tom's presence wasn't a welcome one to her these days. For some reason she felt tainted when she looked at him. It all needed to settle, she supposed. After all, changing Tom would take time and love, but in that moment she felt too exhausted to think of it.

At home she mostly spent her time sitting at the window, staring at the chaos of whirling snowflakes outside and contemplating the icy winter silence. Sometimes she sat there until late in the night, watching how the blue light of winter days made way for the dark star-spangled nights; pondering and contemplating, wondering if there had been something she had done wrong, if there had been something she had overlooked….this unbreakable vow seemed too easy.

A letter from Andrew proved to be a bit of a reprieve; he wrote about Malaysia and the latest travels he'd made there. Minerva dreamed of a jungle-like wilderness with banana and palm trees, untouched beaches that reached to the horizon and white, foamy waves under the intensely glaring sun.

When the time came for her to return to Hogwarts for the second half of her Sixth Year, she stood at the door of the house, waiting for her mother, who was to accompany her to King's Cross Station. Numbly, she stood and stared outside. Her wrist was hurting oddly on this day; it did from time to time now ever since she had taken the Unbreakable Vow.

"Minerva."

Turning, she saw her father. He was looking directly at her, an occasion which she always cherished for it happened so rarely. He cleared his throat uncomfortably when she looked at him in anticipation, straightening his old-fashioned frock rock and adjusting his cravat. Gavyn McGonagall never lost his formality and rigidity; even when at home among his family. He was in his late fifties, a tall man with a solemn expression; hair that had been formerly brown but was now grey and always done in a centre-parting, a grey moustache and the same green eyes as his daughter.

A serious, commanding presence, he commanded respect from his peers. He was a man who lived only in the Wizard World; the existence of Muggles he only recognised with some academic curiosity. As a busy, highly-esteemed Auror during his daughter's childhood, he had been away a lot and they had never got around to a close relationship. Minerva, at times, would have done anything for a friendly word from him. She both admired and feared her father, while she only held hurt and disdain for her mother.

"Minerva," her father said again slowly. "It has come to my attention, that you have been distant lately. Is- Is there anything the matter?"

Minerva smiled slowly, sadly. "No, Father. Everything is alright." She couldn't tell him of the Unbreakable Vow when he had been the one to warn her about it. How much disappointment she would cause him if she told him! No, she couldn't.

"You've grown up so much, Minerva," her father continued and his eyes were suspiciously moist as he regarded her. "You are a witch that a father can be proud of. I am only sorry that I wasn't around for your childhood much, my Minerva."

Tears building up in her eyes at the words she'd longed to hear from her father for so long, Minerva put a tentative hand on his arm. "That's quite alright," she said and smiled shakily. Her father smiled back and for the first time in years Minerva felt that she had built a shaky foundation of trust between them.

* * *

Her mother saw her off at King's Cross Station, wrapped in a huge fur coat, blue eyes as cold as the weather. She looked like some of the puppets Minerva had seen in shop windows, face beautiful and black hair up in an elegant knot, yet cold and unapproachable.

"I trust you will bring honour to the McGonagall family name while you're at Hogwarts, Minerva," her mother told her stiffly.

"Of course, mother," Minerva replied mechanically.

"It will please you to know, that we've arranged a shaky marriage agreement with the Yaxley family. William Yaxley, you might know him from school. He's already graduated by now. I believe he is two years older than you are."

William Yaxley! Minerva remembered a fair-haired boy with slanted green eyes and the bar called "Dunking Daisies" where William had taken her on their first so-called date when she'd been only fourteen years old. He'd tried to force her into kissing him and she remembered how disgusting his breath had been on her face. After Tom had got him face a trial for accusations of sexual harassment, he'd only returned a year after that, graduating a year later than his peers. Minerva was disgusted by him.

"No, Mother," she said tightly. _Here it begins_, the inner voice whispered grimly.

"What do you mean, _No_, Minerva?" Her mother's lips were compressed to a thin line.

"I meant, Mother, that I won't marry him," Minerva replied defiantly, tossing her long braid over her shoulder.

"Minerva!" Adelaide McGonagall gasped. "How dare you talk to your mother that way!"

"It's my life," Minerva said firmly, "and I will be of age next year. You can't force me to do anything. Good-bye, Mother."

With these words, she made to get onto Hogwarts Express. Her mother caught the sleeve of her modest blue dress. "We will talk again about this, Minerva."

"Oh, we shall, Mother," Minerva returned quietly and venomously. Then she shut the door behind her, not looking back, and got into an empty compartment.

Her thoughts rushed in a similar chaotic manner by like the landscape outside, as the train slowly picked up speed to take Minerva back to the only real home she'd ever had.

* * *

**Sixth-Years-Girls Dormitory, Gryffindor Tower, Hogwarts, February 7th, 1942**

"I wonder if we will become like our parents…" Poppy mused; lying on the back next to Minerva- they had construed a kind of sleep-over in Minerva's king-sized bed this night. They were both listening to the creaks that the ancient structure of Gryffindor Tower made at night, when there were no students about, when the Tower was quiet. It seemed as if during the nights, the Tower felt its age.

Minerva could sympathise. She felt older than her sixteen years. The unbreakable bow was like an invisible yet threatening bracelet around her wrist and she thought of Tom, whom she had taken to avoid after the winter holidays.

"I won't become like my mother." She said that with a certain conviction.

Poppy didn't seem to pick up on her mood change.

Softly, she spun a tale: "No, I don't want to become exactly like my parents either. Mum is too docile, Dad too overbearing…I'd sure like to be able to cook as well as Mum though. I can see us living in a nice little street, somewhere in a quaint English village. William and me living together and Tom and you living just next-door. I could come to like him, you know, for you I could…On Sundays we'd have a lovely get-together. You and I would cook, while Tom and William would sit and discuss world politics. Outside, the kids would be playing…"

She sighed, caught up in her happy vision. Minerva didn't like to point out that she couldn't see Tom calmly sitting in a bourgeoisie home, sipping tea and discussing world politics with William Thornton. Neither could she see herself, wearing an apron while making cookies and minding the children.

"That's your dream, Poppy, not mine."

Poppy was silent and Minerva knew that she had hurt her friend with her forwardness.

"Please do forgive me, Poppy," she said and grasped at Poppy's hand, warm in her own. "I assure you that our friendship at least shall endure everything the world throws at us…."

Poppy's voice was relieved as she answered: "Great friendships are meant to last forever." She yawned a little and squeezed Minerva's hand: "Good night, Min."

"Good night, Poppy," Minerva replied gently and watched the blue shadows of the moon play on the ceiling. After a while, Poppy's regular breathing told Minerva that she'd fallen asleep. Minerva allowed her thoughts to wander then- to that house Poppy had described, inside, a smiling Tom; sitting on the sofa, next to him two children with dark hair and intelligent eyes, Tom reading a children's book to them, then, he'd look up to her, eyes full of love….She shook herself out of the vision and willed the burning of her eyes to go away.

This could never be.

The unbreakable vow burned like a bracelet on her wrist, haunting her through the night.

* * *

**The Three Broomsticks, Hogsmeade, March 14th, 1942**

Tom was out with Dolohov on this Saturday evening, settled in a corner of the Three Broomsticks, nursing a butterbeer. Antonin was the only one whose company he enjoyed enough as not to measure his utility like he did with the other Slytherins.

Acestes Nott…was an inbred fool, barely able to think for himself, a product of century-old pureblood madness. Abraxas Malfoy was too snobbish for his liking, reminding him of the gentlemen of Mayfair who always crinkled their noses as the orphans marched past. There was a thin yet significant line between snobbism and true superiority, which Malfoy had never understood. Tom chuckled to himself. Funny how some things changed, no? Malfoy was forced to look up to him, now.

He took a draught of his butterbeer.

Fitzwilliam Avery…was too brutal for Tom's liking. He himself preferred a dose of craftiness to unrefined violence himself, for unrefined violence reminded him too much of the Muggle children in London brawling on the street. Tom had never been able to hold his own in a physical fight well against the boys from the orphanage, namely Billy Stubbs, having been a slim, bony child that preferred to spend his time indoors, reading. The elegance of a spell on the other hand…

Tom sipped thoughtfully at his butterbeer as he contemplated magic. It was such a strange thing, Magic, it could make people both immensely happy and deeply sad.

His thoughts returned to his companion. Antonin had proven to be an interlocutor worthy of his time, quick-witted and intelligent. Tom didn't mind him as long as Antonin followed his orders.

"Tom, is that…?" Antonin's surprised voice shook him out of his reverie. Slightly irritated, Tom followed Antonin's gaze. _Oh dear God_, was his first thought, reminiscent of Miss Cole whenever the children at the orphanage had done something dire. She would clap her hands over her head, take on the expression of a frightened cuckoo and say: "Oh dear God!"

Tom didn't really take on the expression of a frightened cuckoo, for there was really no need, seeing that she was already singing about a cuckoo. Minerva.

Standing on table, looking as charming as she was drunk, singing and dancing to the lyrics of Martha Tilton's "Cuckoo in the Clock" was his lady friend.

"Oh dear God," Tom mumbled and got up quickly, vowing to save her and by extension also him, from further humiliation.

Minerva looked beautiful on that day, wearing white petticoats with black polka dots and a form-fitting black blouse. Her hair was up in a sleek black ponytail that nearly hung to her waist. Tom wasn't the only to notice her beauty as he saw at the lewd gazes of a few men, much to his anger.

When she caught sight of him pushing quickly through the forming crowd, Minerva let out a delighted shout: "Tom! There you are."

Tom ignored her and turned to Minerva's friend, Poppy Pomfrey, whose rusty-coloured head was bent over a glass of firewhiskey. "What. Are. You. Two. Doing?" he asked slowly and dangerously.

"Getting drunk," Poppy giggled. She raised her head, her face flushed with mirth. "You see, Minerva never really got around to celebrating her sixteenth birthday. And that- that is a bloody shame isn't it? So I dragged her here and introduced her to firewhiskey. And now don't make such a face!" she wagged an unsteady finger in front of his face, "you are the one who caused her so much misery in the last months anyway! Plus, it's Valentine's Day and as I see it, you haven't given her anything nice today. So you better be quiet."

Tom frowned at her heavily and nodded at that Ravenclaw fool, William Thornton, who was standing in the background. "You might want to escort your lady-friend to the castle."

William nodded his assent, for once agreeing with a Slytherin, and made his way over to Poppy. Taking no heed of them, Tom stretched his arm out. "Minerva. Come down from the table."

As a reply, she went belting out the lyrics of the song "Cuckoo in the clock":

_There they were, there they were, he was baby-talkin' her_

_And the cuckoo in the clock went "Cuckoo!"_

_Every fifteen minutes he crew, "Cuckoo, cuckoo!"_

Tom felt how his face flushed for all the unwanted attention they were getting. From the corner of his eyes, he saw the old fool Dumbledore, standing in a corner with some of the other teachers. Minerva sure was going to regret this, for he knew what the public opinion of a Lady drinking was. But she seemed to take no heed of this, instead, she suddenly grabbed him by the pair of braces he was wearing, having donned Muggle clothes that day, drew out her wand and said a merry _"Levicorpus!"_

He was flung on the table to stand opposite of her, wearing a wide-eyed look that he quickly shook off. As she attempted to do the Lindy Hop with him, Tom felt how his mood changed. Oh, she was never going to live that down, for sure. Also, she was going to owe him quite a lot for this.

Minerva went, flailing her limbs to all sides, reminding Tom of that Muggle Comedian- what was his name? Ah yes, Charlie Chaplin.

"Minerva…The Lindy Hop doesn't work that way."

He humoured then and showed her some of the steps he'd seen the people do in the dance halls, late on the evening in London, sometimes when he'd sneaked out from the orphanage…At the same time he shot Dolohov a glare, saying that if he ever breathed a word of this to anyone, he'd be dead. Dolohov hid his grin and nodded his assent.

"Oh Tom," Minerva giggled and grabbed him by his pair of braces, placing a kiss right on his mouth. "You are such a good dancer!" Tom felt how his face turned a flaming red as he caught the knowing grin of the old fool in the corner. Enough of this.

"Minerva," he asked in his politest tone, "would you care to conclude our dancing session outside?"

Minerva smiled a little woozily and allowed him to lead her outside to cool off. He couldn't prevent her from doing the Lindy Hop with him all the way to the school though- and a small part of him even enjoyed it. He hadn't been so entertained in a long time.

* * *

Minerva woke up to a head that was literally killing her and a smirking Tom sitting next to her bed.

"G'way", she mumbled disgruntled and then, as she realised he wasn't going to obey her, followed by the realisation that the bed she was in did not look familiar, added a: "Where are we?"

She sat up very slowly, for her head painfully protested against each centimetre she moved.

"We're in the Room of Requirement," Tom explained, closing the book he had been reading- _Great Wizards in History, Volume I: Salazar Slytherin-_ and smirked a bit nastily at her.

"The Room of Requirement?" Minerva choked out, seeing a similar bed to hers a few metres away, its covers rumpled. That probably explained where Tom had spent the night. The situation was beyond improper, really, but Minerva had long since stopped caring about propriety.

Her head seemed to explode as she accidentally turned it too quickly to look at Tom. What, in the name of sweet Merlin, had she been doing? Had there been….dancing?

"Ow."

"Careful." Tom's smirk had turned sadistic. "But you know what they say, Minerva, if you can feel pain then it must mean that your head is still there."

"Very helpful, you wise guy," Minerva grumbled and sat up, very conscious of her movements.

"Why did you bring me here?" she asked then and squeezed her eyes shut as a wave of dizziness hit her.

"Well, after you got rip-roaringly drunk yesterday, and after you decided to have a swell time and tried to do the Lindy Hop with me-"

"I did what?" Minerva shrieked.

"The Lindy Hop. On a table," Tom confirmed as his sadistic smirk slowly widened. "Then, as I was saying, after you did the Lindy Hop with me, you and I passed Professor Dumbledore, who made me promise I'd look out for you. I thought you wouldn't want to return to Gryffindor Tower in the state you were in. So here I am, making good on that promise."

Minerva buried her rapidly reddening face in her hands. She was never going to touch alcohol again. Never. This was not good. There were no words to say how not good the entire thing was.

"Dumbledore was there! Oh what will they all think of me!" she moaned.

Minerva was well aware of the public opinion of a Lady drinking. Yesterday had been Poppy's idea and after all the frustration of the last months she had been only too eager to say yes to a bit of fun.

"Don't worry, Minerva," Tom tried to sound reassuring but he had never very adept at reassuring anyone. "I will look after you. I always keep my promises."

Minerva winced slightly at his words and her look wandered to her wrist as she thought of the unbreakable vow. The uncomfortable silence that spread in the room told her even if she did not look up that Tom's eyes were fixed on her wrist, too, and he had guessed her thoughts. Minerva looked up then and met Tom's midnight eyes and they gazed at each other for a very long time.

Then, in an attempt to break the awkward silence, Tom withdrew a sealed letter from his pocket.

"This came for you at breakfast," he said, holding out the letter to her.

"It's from Abby…"Minerva commented and took the letter, recognising the sloppy script. She chose to open the letter rather than to spend her time pondering that she had missed breakfast.

After she had read it, she gasped. Tom peered at her nonchalantly. "What?"

"She-she's pregnant…" Abby was pregnant. She described her marriage as surprisingly peaceful and was looking forward to the birth of her little one. Minerva felt oddly horrified at the thought of Abby as a mother, standing at the hearth, concerned with a gaggle of children…

"But…how…" she mumbled. How could Abby be so calm about it all when she had been so anxious about this marriage before? Minerva felt as if, with this letter, she had now truly lost her friend.

"Minnie, do I really have to explain the birds and the bees to you?"

Minerva's face flushed scarlet at Tom's words. It had been a cheeky sentence, but to her surprise, he blushed as well when she looked at him. In that moment, she realised that in spite of Tom's apocalyptic plans and horrible opinions, he was still her Tom. He was still that witty boy who was so quick with sarcasm, her calculating Tom, who was nonetheless as young as her in so many ways.

Avoiding him like she had done ever since she had returned from home suddenly did not seem to be such a good idea anymore. If she wanted to see him how wrong he was, she needed to restore things to normality. If she wanted him to change his thinking, she needed him to show all the beauties that this life held, needed to make him understand that dying was part of life no matter how painful, needed to make him change his views.

Tom had never had fun in the classical sense of the word. Minerva's childhood had been quite devoid of parental affection, save for her older brother who had been much like a parent for her, but she had nevertheless had fun; climbed trees like the boys had done, taken out her broomstick for a spin across the Scottish Highlands, climb through the scraggly straw in a barn…

"Tom," she eventually said. His eyes snapped to her face and he seemed to watch her calculatingly.

Shaking off the memory of that awful evening in Slytherin Dungeons his expression reminded her of, she simply said: "Meet me tomorrow evening. At the Quidditch Pitch."

"Why?" he queried.

"Because," she simply answered and had to suppress a smile at his confused expression. She was well aware of his hate for surprises.

"I shall be going now," she announced a little awkwardly and got wobbly to her feet, hissing at the pain this caused in her head. "Thank you," she said when she stood at the door.

Tom merely nodded curtly, out of the sudden back to keeping his distance. Minerva though didn't let it deter her.

He had an agenda, of course he had.

Well, now she had one of her own, too.

* * *

**March 16th, 1942**

The weather was not at peace that night. Storm clouds amassed at the horizon; darker even than the approaching night. Stars were few and scattered in between openings of this great cloud mass. But the moon had found an undisturbed corner , from whence his waxen glow came, serene and undisturbed.

The squalls of the upcoming storm tore at Minerva's hair and let the dark strands fly haphazardly around her head.

"Come on, Tom," she whispered and took his hand.

He seemed nearly transfixed as he stared at her, wondering indistinctly if she knew how much she reminded him of the Roman goddess she had been named after in that moment; dark hair loose and green eyes glowing in a nearly disturbing way under the moonshine. She seemed ethereal.

"What are you thinking about?"  
Her impatient voice shook him out of his reverie. "I never knew you to be one to break the rules so devotedly, Minerva," he smirked.

"Coming from you, that's rich." She shot him a quick grin, twisted and strained.

"Me?" Tom put on his best insulted air.

"Yes, you. Don't believe you can fool me like you fool the teachers. I know very well that you decide which rules to uphold and which to break, Tom."  
Tom decided not to give too much on her words this time.

"Well, my dear Minerva, lead the way," he stated dryly.

She shook his head faintly at his lack of response to her barb and tugged him along to where the broomsticks were kept. A simple _Alohomora_ opened the door for them. Tom didn't really care much for broomsticks and Quidditch, so he stayed back, watching with a certain academic kind of curiosity as she ran her hands over handle and handle of each broomstick.

He couldn't understand what made them different from one another. But for Minerva, each smooth handle felt like a promise, until she found one that beckoned to her at the back of the cupboard. It was an older broomstick, not as perfect as the others, but she felt the broomstick knew what it was like to fly in a moonlight night. Who it had belonged to once, she did not know. Broomsticks that were kept here were sometimes centuries-old.

Minerva turned to Tom, her eyes questioning as she held out the handle of another broomstick to him.

Tom backed away a few steps. "I don't want it," he said sharply. "I don't know how to." The last admission had obviously been made reluctantly.

"You've never ridden a broomstick?"

"No," he said shortly in a tone of voice that told Minerva clearly that he wanted her to leave it alone. But Minerva wouldn't have been Minerva if she wouldn't defy Tom's wishes.

"Why?"

"I am not particularly fond of brooms. Miss Cole would have me sweeping the entire orphanage with them as a boy."

"Liar." Minerva glared at him. She couldn't help a tiny smirk. "And a bad one at that. You've lost your touch, Tom. You would have me believe you are afraid of a muggle device?"

"Not afraid," Tom corrected icily, "I said not particularly fond."

"And I said you are a liar." Minerva raised her eyebrows. "Your lies are usually better than that."

"Would you happen to be implying me to be dishonest, my dear Minnie?" Tom smirked wryly.

"Of course you are," Minerva said as cheerful as she could. "You pretend to be something you are not. But the teachers believe everything you say or do."

"Touché," Tom's smirk widened. Then it faded abruptly. "Until I met you, I wanted to become something else. Someone else," he whispered earnestly, stepping closer. The look in his eyes was desperate, nearly crazy.

"If only I could believe you," Minerva sighed. The tears of frustration swamped her eyes again.

Tom's silky strands of hair tickled her cheek as he enveloped her in a warm embrace. "Unbreakable vows are unbreakable for a reason, Minerva."

"I know, I know." She did. And she was tired of it. She felt nearly deranged with that realisation; the last moths had been spent in a fevered haze of denial and the sick hope that maybe he had found the right path after all. But then, he was Tom, and she knew him, knew his determination and his confidence in his beliefs and abilities. Yet she also trusted in the infallibility of magic. Like he said, it had been an unbreakable vow.

"I love you, Minerva."

He had never said that before and his voice twisted something sharply inside of her. It hurt. She stepped back from him, brushing her hair away from her eyes.

"I don't believe you."

"How much more proof than the fact that I am willing to die for it do you need?" He seemed frustrated; raking his pale hands through his dishevelled hair, blue eyes alit with a strange light as he gazed at her.

Instead of answering, Minerva stepped toward him slowly and reached down to take his hand. "Come with me, Tom." When he still hesitated she tacked on a: "Or are you afraid of a Muggle device?"

Tom scoffed darkly. How easy he could be, Minerva thought, as a weight was added to hers and he slid behind her on the broomstick. But there were things about him that were all kinds of difficult and she knew it. Before the memories of that awful night could slip back, she pushed off the ground. Tom was silent and held on to her.

"You can let go of me if you want to. I promise you, you won't fall. It's as if you can fly all by yourself." As if to show him, Minerva let go of the broomstick and stretched her arms out, embracing the midnight air and the glow of the moon until she felt as if she herself was just an unimportant spectre, submissive to this majestic silence of the night.

Tom caught her arms roughly. "Take the broomstick," he ordered. There was something like thinly-veiled panic in his voice and Minerva couldn't really feel anger at him for it. She understood now why he hadn't wanted to take the broomstick earlier- Tom Riddle was afraid of heights. Minerva wondered why she hadn't understood that earlier.

"You are afraid of heights," she said quietly, questioningly.

"I am not afraid of heights," Tom corrected as quietly. "It's the fall from great heights that bothers me."

Minerva looked down below, at the ground that seemed so very far away, the trees that seemed like mere toys and the meadows, silent and dark far far down. She grasped the smooth wood of the broomstick again and his hold on her tightened.

They did not speak of it again.

They skated along the edges of the lake until Minerva lowered the broomstick so it nearly touched the water. She laughed in quiet delight as they raced over the calm surface, causing small ripples to appear for they were so close to the water. The lake was like an expanse of glimmering steel, curiously silent in the night. No birdsong could be heard, no children's laughter.

The days differed from the nights. On the days, the lake belonged to the children of Hogwarts. In the nights, the lake belonged to no one but itself.

Even Tom couldn't deny that he forgot everything in that night; his plans, his hatred for Dumbledore, his research and his concern about the loyalty of his followers. There was just Minerva's hair that got into his nose constantly; with it the rich scent of wildflowers, and the moon's glow while the lake shimmered placidly beneath them. His fear of falling was all but forgotten because she wouldn't let him fall and for some wild moments, Tom actually allowed himself to trust in another human being.

It felt as if they were racing along the edge of the world, with the mountains forming a clear ridge in the distance and the lake glittering like an unfulfilled promise for eternity.

With these thoughts in mind Tom finally let go of Minerva's back and stretched his arms out.

He felt as if he could control death that night without a single spell.

* * *

_tbc_...

_Annotation:_

_The **Lindy Hop** is an American social dance, from the swing dance family. It evolved in Harlem, New York City, in the 1920s and '30s and originally evolved with the jazz music of that time. Lindy was a fusion of many dances that preceded it or were popular during its development but is mainly based on jazz, tap, breakaway and Charleston. It is frequently described as a jazz dance and is a member of the swing dance family. (Source: Wikipedia)  
_

_There are lots of nice videos on youtube showing the Lindy Hop. Take a look at them, it's certainly worth you time :)_

_The song "Cuckoo in the Clock" by Martha Tilton came out in 1939. It's also on youtube if you want to have an impression of what Minerva was singing..._


	18. 1942 Part II

_Hi everyone! Thank you very much for your kind reviews,** PottyParker, Megii, Sarafina, Valentina** and **Mara**! Hope you like this chapter too :) The next update should be soon._

_Sachita ;-)_**  
**

* * *

**Chapter Seventeen  
**

**Hogwarts, May 25th, 1942**

"Miss McGonagall," Albus Dumbledore said with a kind smile as she opened the door to his study on a warm May afternoon.

April had passed without too much excitement, for which Minerva was quite grateful, as it meant she could eventually turn to her schoolwork. Since her last year was approaching, the teachers saw it fit to heap tons and tons of essays on them.

"Please do have a seat. " Professor Dumbledore motioned to her usual chair in front of the fireplace with his quill. "I'll just finish grading these two essays, then we can commence our session."

"Of course, Professor," Minerva replied and when Professor Dumbledore was busy with grading the papers in front of him, she took the time to study him. He looked old, she thought, old and exhausted. There was more grey hair in his beard than the last time she'd seen him; at least that how it felt to her. When he looked up, she quickly averted her gaze and stared into the flames of the fireplace.

After what felt like an eternity, Professor Dumbledore was finished. "So, Miss McGonagall, we can talk now," he said, looking at her fondly.

"Yes, Professor," Minerva said and bit her lip, watching how he conjured two cups of tea and a bowl with sugar.

"I don't know how to say this- I want to apologise for what I said regarding your decision about Gitta Scraviani the last time we really talked…I've thought about it and I still don't approve of it, but I would like to say that I know it can't have been an easy decision for you."

"Spoken like a true Gryffindor," Professor Dumbledore replied and his blue eyes twinkled in pride.

"However, Miss McGonagall, you don't have to apologise. I am an old man and I have made a great many mistakes in my life and I am not proud of any of them. While I admit that there could have been no way of knowing if Miss Scraviani was a spy or not; I should have taken measures to protect her. You had every right to question me, Miss McGonagall, in fact I am quite grateful, for it doesn't happen often that I or my actions are questioned. Maybe that's a bad thing."

He sighed and leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes for a second, looking wearier than Minerva had ever seen him.

"Sir," Minerva asked anxiously, "how is the war with Grindelwald going? The latest newspaper news seem to be quite bad."

"Ah," Dumbledore smiled, "this is something you should learn; Miss McGonagall; never trust a newspaper fully. They are not called the Fourth Estate for nothing. We have managed to beat some of Grindelwald's strongholds in Spain and France, yet he still has loyal followers in Eastern and Central Europe. "

He watched her carefully, stroking his beard.

"You see, Miss McGonagall, I should like to think that Gellert won't attack either you or Mister Riddle again. We beat him badly in London and he will attempt to secure the Continent before he tries anything in Britain once more. Gellert is playing this war like others play chess; strategically planning his moves and rationally thinking about each and every one of it. His followers are like mere chess pawns for him."

The look in his blue eyes was oddly intense as he fixed it once more on Minerva.

"However, Miss McGonagall, I am not like him. I have learned from my mistakes and you can be assured that no one will harm you or Mister Riddle while you are under my watch."

Minerva felt how her eyes turned suspiciously moist as she regarded him. "Thank you, sir," she said solemnly in reply.

Albus Dumbledore, in spite of his scheming and misgivings, genuinely cared.

And that was what Minerva valued so about him.

* * *

**Hogwarts, June 2nd, 1942**

Tom was sitting at the edge of the lake. He had lost his robe and had his sleeves rolled up to his elbows. The way he sat was casual and refined at the same time- Minerva thought it slightly contradictory; but as usual Tom pulled the seemingly impossible off with distinction. One of Tom's long legs was stretched out in front of him, while his arms and head rested on the other that he had drawn to his chest. Nagini was curled up next to him, apparently dozing on a flat stone in the spring sunshine.

A slight breeze was curling the water of the lake and brushing through Tom's hair as well, but he didn't react at all to it. His dark blue eyes were fixed on a yellow leaf that was gracefully floating upon the surface of the water. With his right hand Tom slowly picked up a flat stone and threw it at the leaf. It was submerged for a moment under the weight of the stone, but then the stone slipped down to disappear in the murky depths of the lake while the leaf bobbed again to the surface. Tom was still watching it with a disturbingly intense expression on his face. Then, he smirked slowly, but it was not a happy smirk.

Lost in his thoughts as he seemed to be, an observer might have thought that he was inattentive; but Minerva, standing just slightly to his right, knew that it was not the case. Tom was always alert.

"A knut for your thoughts, Tom," she announced finally quietly and heard how her words were scattered by the slight breeze.

Summer had just started and its full green colour was scattered over the meadows.

"I was thinking on that leaf," Tom stated without inflection, not even looking up to her.

Minerva gazed at him and then at the scenery of the lake; reflecting for a moment on the image before her: the boy with his wavy dark hair and the pale skin that formed a startling contrast to the school robes that were surrounding him as a dark puddle and the small snake, sitting at the edge of the Lake that seemed to go on endlessly, blending effortlessly into the far horizon.

"What was it that you thought about that leaf?" She inquired tentatively and lowered herself down to sit next to him. Tom gazed at her for a long moment with an unreadable expression; before he simply shrugged the question of. "It doesn't matter, Minerva. You know," he added and now a tiny smirk was pulling at the corners of his mouth, "forgive me for saying so, but you seem quite blown-away today."  
Minerva knew he was referring to her appearance; for today her hair had refused to stay in its customary bun, resulting in a very messy bun and a general appearance of upheaval.

She reddened and brought her hands up in an attempt to fix the mess.

"Oh, please don't," Tom told her sardonically, getting up and looking critically at her. "Will you today permit me to free your hair from that atrocious prison you put it in?" he asked somewhat superfluously, seeing that he had started to remove hairpins without even waiting for her reply.

Minerva honestly didn't mind this time. Her hairdo had been catastrophic to begin with and there was no-one nearby who was watching anyway on that cool spring day. Regarding Tom- well, Minerva had given up holding up propriety when around him anyway. Her thoughts returned to the leaf as Tom disentangled her hair with surprisingly gentle fingers.

A submerged leaf, returning to the surface again- much like death and renewal…Minerva frowned, wondering whether that was what Tom had been thinking about. It was possible; he spent a large amount of time pondering philosophical and, as some might call it, abstract and also slightly morbid concepts of death and dying. Reflexively, her gaze wandered to her hand. The wrist still hurt, from time to time, but if it guaranteed that Tom would not hurt any innocents she didn't care. It wasn't as if he was a bad person…just misguided and with a very meagre set of ethics. Minerva supposed that his upbringing had made him that way; a set of ethics and morale only got you so far in a Machiavellian-minded London orphanage.

She decided not to dwell on the topic for too long; she was fed up feeling gloomy and she did not want to ruin this day by hearing him confirm her suspicions.

"What is it about my hair that fascinates you so?" she asked finally as he was finished, suppressing a small laugh.

Tom sat back down next to her, his eyes alit with wry mirth. But he didn't say anything; he just sidled up to her and removed the last of her hairpins from the side of her head and her belligerent hair.

"Maybe you should forego Hogwarts and become a hairdresser," Minerva went on, deliberately teasing him. Tom's amused smirk widened.

"If I ever do prance around London with a pair of scissors and ridiculously slicked-back hair, while brandishing a copy of _Britannia and Eve_, you may curse me into the next century."

"Oh, Tom," Minerva laughed.

This easy banter with him was something she had dearly missed. After all that had happened between them in the last months, she desperately needed an ounce of normalcy. Then again, were things ever normal with Tom?

"Admit it; it's always been a secret dream of yours to become exactly like that."

Tom chuckled harshly. "Of course. That'd be after I let my hair grow to the same length as yours."

Minerva stared at him; imagining him with her long hair…seeing him wearing her bun... "That's a horrific mental image," she replied flatly.

Tom looked vastly entertained at her expression of horror. "Did you know," he pointed out smoothly, "that in old Germanic tribes long hair was considered a source of great strength and vitality? It's just because you are not used to it that you deem it abhorrent and strange; a very human trait if I may say so."

Minerva snorted, seeing the title of the book lying next to him. It said "_Ancient Wizards spell-works and symbols". _"Guess that answers the question of your latest reading material," she said dryly, adding a "Let's not talk of hair anymore, Tom, or else you might be mistaken for a girl."

Tom was suddenly very close to her, the thin fabric of his cotton pants brushing against her stockings, his body warmth bleeding onto hers and breaths warm and steady on her neck as he whispered huskily into her ear:

"Do you mean to question my manliness?"

Minerva felt how her cheeks warmed and prayed that her face wasn't as red as she feared it was.

Her heart started pounding like a whirlwind and her hands were sweaty, while goose bumps crawled all over her body as she tried to deal with his sudden proximity.

"No," she managed to stutter with a dry mouth, "let's talk about something else. Why don't I tell you about what I learned from Professor Dumbledore today?"

Tom moved abruptly away and the spell was broken.

* * *

"Dumbledore, eh?" he scoffed darkly. "What an appealing change of topics. Frankly, Minerva, I am not sure I am in the mood to listen to you holding another Dumbledore eulogy."

Minerva was torn between relied and disappointment that he'd moved away. "This is not a eulogy. In fact, it is quite far from it."

Tom didn't really reply to that; he just reclined and watched her calmly. Minerva, taking that as her cue to proceed, told him everything about the conversation she'd had with Professor Dumbledore a few days before.

"So he told me that Grindelwald sees persons as pawns on a chessboard. But Professor Dumbledore doesn't. And I believed him. See; that's exactly what makes him different from Grindelwald," she finished triumphantly.

Her favourite Professor had made her seen sense, finally, by telling her that he sacrificing people didn't leave him indifferent. It had showed her his humanity. Professor Dumbledore might not have been a saint, but he was human, and Minerva could understand that. To be honest, she was rather glad to understand his point of view better now.

Tom, when she looked at him, was wearing a very odd expression. It seemed as if he was torn between tears and laughter.

"Minerva," he said eventually solemnly. "Are you serious?"

He looked at her intently and then snorted derisively. "Good Merlin, you are serious. Minerva, I admire your Gryffindor loyalty, but please tell me, how can you be so naïve?"

Minerva tensed, but Tom ploughed on.

"Grindelwald isn't the only one who sees people as pawns on a chessboard. Yes, Minerva- and don't look at me like that- your precious Albus Dumbledore is just the same. Maybe he tells us you of his pure aims and convictions, yet his actions, looked at in a sober light, are just the same. He wants to win the war against Grindelwald and he will use everything in his power to achieve that aim. Maybe the wizard world will be better off without Grindelwald, but that is not what matters to Dumbledore. It's also a question of power. It's always about power. Good Merlin, Minerva, it's never been about beliefs or convictions or whatever."

Tom took a deep breath, visibly upset now, but before Minerva could say a word of protest, he resumed his monologue.

"War is always about power. The reasons for the wars are just pretences to make the ordinary people believe in it. But Machiavelli was right. It's about power and it always was, though the common people may never understand that. But you should, Minerva. You should wake up to that. Did you read the newspaper in the last few days?"

When Minerva shook her head mutely, Tom went on. His eyes were glowing with rage and he trembled with the force of his anger.

"Well, there have been bombing raids on the German cities of Lübeck, Hamburg and Cologne, conducted by the RAF in the last few months and last days, actually. Then; the German Luftwaffe wreaked havoc on Exeter, Bath, Norwich and York."

"I've heard of those," Minerva forced out hoarsely.

"Yes," Tom laughed cruelly, " heard of them, did you? Well, there's been trouble in the wizard world as well. Grindelwald attacked French wizard families in the last few weeks. There have been many victims. At the same time, he terrorises Romania and Italy. So do you know why I am telling you this?"

"No, Tom," Minerva spat out, her own anger mounting at the way he was talking to her. "I don't. I really don't."

"Then let me tell you. You see, the thing is- Lübeck was largely a town of cultural importance; no place of strategic importance whatsoever. Do you think the people there deserved to die just because they were German? Lots of Exeter's historical buildings were destroyed as well. The people there didn't do anything to the Germans either. They didn't deserve to die either. Those are just two examples. The French families- did they ever do anything wrong? It doesn't even have to do with the primary objectives of those two wars. No; it's much worse."

He dropped his voice to a whisper. "It's, you see, just a show-off. Power. It's just about power. And the people; well, we are all pawns to them; no matter if you are a British soldier or a German one. It doesn't matter."

With that, he fell silent, his cheeks flushed after his rant; his hands clenched to fists, a wild look in his eyes.

A hot fire was bubbling inside Minerva and she replied hotly:  
"So you might be correct. But why does everyone have to be that way? Why can't you see that Professor Dumbledore might be different than everyone else?"

Tom's anger had abated while Minerva's had mounted; he just sat there looking drained and paler than before.

"It's a human trait," he explained calmly, "it's the temptation of power. To hold another's life in your hands…to have the power to destroy or to rebuild; to be short, to have god's power; that is something no one can resist."

"What if Professor Dumbledore can?" Minerva pressed on.

A quick flash of anger crossed Tom's handsome face but it was as quickly gone as it had appeared. "Then he is inhuman, which I presume he is not, or have you noticed him growing fangs or anything of the sort lately, Minnie?" His attempt at humour fell flat. Minerva felt her own anger evaporate; she closed her eyes in exhaustion.

"Good Merlin," she whispered. "Why is it that we always have to argue? Why can't you be more like everyone else, Tom?"

Tom, when she looked at him, had closed his eyes too and held his face in the light of the sun. "Would you really have me be like William Thornton, who tells his Poppy time and time again just oh how much he loves her and oh what a sweet girl she is, yet doesn't respect her opinions?"

There was truth in his words; William Thornton, Poppy's Ravenclaw boyfriend didn't really respect her opinions because he was clinging to the rather outdated beliefs of a man's superiority over a woman. Poppy had often complained bitterly about it to Minerva, for she was a headstrong girl who was not to be cast aside with a condescending smile by anyone; especially not by her boyfriend.

"No," Minerva said thus reluctantly, "I would not have you like that, Tom…but…"

Tom opened weary eyes to look at her. "Admit it. You love me the way I am."

With the consequence of lying weighing on her and the unbreakable vow like an invisible bracelet on her wrist, Minerva said: "I do love you, Tom. I do. Still…"

"I don't want to argue with you anymore, Minerva," Tom interrupted her and lay down on his back with his eyes closed. He seemed even wearier than before. "We should change topics, I believe."

* * *

Minerva already wanted to acerbically point out that he was quick to give up, but she didn't want to. Arguing with Tom always left her with a sense of bereavement. "Let's talk about…London."

"London?" Tom cracked open an incredulous eye. "What?"

Satisfied that she had at least managed to provoke some kind of reaction from him, Minerva continued. "Yes, London." When his incredulous look lingered on her, she explained: "I don't know how I came to think of it…but I've ever only seen it with my parents…and then we were inside sticky rooms meeting with some boring pureblood family members…or in the inside of a car. And the one time I came to see you in December two years ago hardly counts, I suppose. So tell me about London. Do you feel about it like you feel about the orphanage?" It had been a direct question, but the atmosphere around them was charged with almost brutal directness and Minerva wasn't about to be the one to back down.

Tom sat up and sighed. "I still can't understand why you would want to talk about London, Minerva, but very well. I shall tell you about it." He looked over the lake.

"I never hated London; it's the city of my birth and I suppose I am quite fond of it in a fashion. What can I tell you about living there? The orphanage I grew up in is located in London's East End…which is not the most popular part of the city. Many are even afraid to go there, but you just have to know what to do and what not to do. Miss Cole would often send me to go fetch the milk from the milkman. I'd run over to the street and to the milkman and since we are so many, I'd lug a handcart through backyards to the orphanage; filled with our milk bottles." He chortled in amusement. When Minerva looked at him in questioning silence, he elaborated.

"Just thinking of Abraxas Malfoy. I bet he didn't have to lug heavy handcarts through backyards. Ah, but none of that matters now." For a moment an ugly, oddly triumphant sneer passed over his features before he continued.

"The milkman was quite fond of me; for some reason. Sometimes he'd give me a few pence and I'd sneak out from the orphanage and over to Spitalfields Market, where I'd buy rock candy from the women who usually bring it with them from Blackpool or Brighton." His voice was unusually fond as he recounted this to Minerva.

"On rarer days; I'd sneak out from the orphanage at dawn to the river and watch the water and the ships. Sometimes I'd even hitch a ride on the tube – you just have to know when there are no inspectors- and go all the way to Enbankment Station. I'd sit there on the parapet of Waterloo Bridge and dangle my feet and watch the cars, carts and the people; the fine Ladies with their odd shapes of hats and their voluminous dresses and pearl purses; clinging to the arms of their husbands…no-nonsense-looking men with English moustaches and bowler hats, sporting monocles and walking sticks… I used to sit there and amuse myself endlessly about the looks of them, wondering if they felt ridiculous at all. Usually, those days would end with me being chased away by the Bobbies and returning to the wonderfully warm welcoming orphanage in the evenings."

Minerva wondered why he was being so honest with her, when her look fell on her wrist and it occurred to her. He didn't have a reason to lie now, did he? He had her loyalty assured now. The thought made bitterness rise up within her and she bit her lip so hard that she could taste blood. It was this strange bitter mood her thoughts had put her in that made her ask the next question.

"What about the orphanage then?"

Tom's face darkened rapidly. "Why would you want to know anything about the orphanage?" he retorted icily.

"I don't know," Minerva shrugged, ploughing on, suddenly feeling spiteful, not a feeling she was used to and not one she particularly liked. Was he changing her? The thought made her feel panicked out of the sudden.

"The orphanage…" Tom laughed shortly.

"Imagine living in a room with twenty other boys; threadbare clothing and sparse bedding. In the winters, you'll see your breaths in the air as white clouds. Heating often fails and the blankets are not thick enough to protect you from shivering through the nights. Bath days mean you'll be put into a wooden tub with about three others, filled with freezing dirty water. Breakfast; if you're lucky and you get breakfast, is watery porridge. In the last years rationing has cut down on our supply of clothes, food and just everything else you can think of, so the clothes have become even more threadbare; the portions of food more meagre and more watery. Your days pass being slighted and abused by dumb Muggles because you are _different_."

He spat the last word out, crazy flames of anger and burning hate dancing through his blue eyes. In that moment, Minerva feared him.

Tom clenched his fists shortly and then exhaled. "No, it's not like growing up in a Scottish Manor with a house elf at your beck and call," he finally said, calmer.

Minerva didn't reply and Tom didn't offer more, too. The atmosphere was awkward after his outburst. Minerva knew about Tom's volatile temper and thought that maybe she shouldn't have pushed him so far; but then again she was feeling irascible as well, oddly irrational and angered at him.

"So what side will you choose?" Tom asked eventually, after long moments of tense silence.

"Pardon?" Minerva snapped.

"Well, it all comes down to sides, doesn't it? Are you still so fond of Dumbledore, that you'll end up backing him in every decision the fool makes or can you see my side of things also?"

A hysterical laugh bubbled over Minerva's lips. It was suddenly so easy.

"Choosing a side? Choosing a side! Tom, when it comes down to it; I'll choose my own side and no-one else's."

To her surprise, the tension in his tall frame left instantly and Tom's face relaxed noticeably. He was even wearing a genuine smile. "What a Slytherin thing to say, Minerva. I am proud of you." Without even waiting for her reply, he was suddenly very close to her again, suggestively wagging his eyebrows with a decisively mischievous expression on his handsome face: "But you were put in Gryffindor and as such I imagine we shall have a Gryffindor Headgirl next year. You know, you could abuse your authority sometimes…you and me, we could break curfew…"

Torn between offence, a strange thrill of excitement that she would have denied even to herself, bewilderment about this sudden change of topics and wanting to protest that she didn't know whether she'd be head girl next year, Minerva settled for an indignant: "Tom!"

He just laughed.

* * *

**Hogwarts, June 3rd, 1942**

"Well, that sounds really frustrating," Poppy eventually commented as Minerva told her about what had transpired at the lake. Of course she had omitted the conversation about Tom's upbringing, the war and power because she knew how badly Poppy would have reacted to that. But she had told her of Tom's cheeky comments.

"Men!" Poppy sighed now. "They are unbelievable, all of them. Do you know what William said today? He told me that we'd move to a village next to where his parents live when we are married. When we are married!" She scoffed in indignation. "I am not sure I even want to marry him anymore."

Minerva smirked and Poppy replied with an evil smile of her own. "You know, I was just thinking about getting some revenge on them. Imagine…" she drew the word out…"Tom in pink trousers."

Minerva laughed at the mental image that created. "And William in a tutu!" she snorted.

"Tom with a yellow pair of braces and a blue feather boa!"

"William with high heels and the robes of Professor Dumbledore, you know, the hideously green ones with the moving yellow lions?"

At Poppy's blank look Minerva sighed. "You know, the one he likes to wear nearly every week?"

Poppy snorted. "Yes, but I honestly thought those were yellow monkeys! I've never heard of such lions. Anyway, imagine how Tom will look like when-"

How will Tom look like when what happens?" Tom asked suavely, appearing out of a sideways corridor.

Minerva blew him a raspberry, feeling rebellious, while Poppy turned as red as a tomato. "When his girlfriend tells him that she'd rather spend the day with her best friend than in the undoubtedly invigorating company of her gentleman friend?"

Tom raised an eyebrow as the two of them walked past him and stroked Nagini, who was looking out of his school robes.

"_I'd say, Nagini, that Minerva's gentleman friend has better things to do," _he hissed discretely to the snake. "_The entrance must be somewhere near the second floor girls' bathroom, the texts from that book offer no other possible explanation…"_

Nagini hissed in quiet approval as her Master continued to stroke her head. "_We will find it, Master Tom."_

* * *

**Hogwarts, June 29th, 1942**

The end of the school year was once again approaching with great steps and Minerva marvelled at how quickly the second half seemed to have passed. With a heavy heart, she gathered her things and put them into her trunk. Leaving Hogwarts always saddened her deeply, for she considered this castle as good as her home.

A flutter at the open window caught her attention and she let Caelus in. He brought the latest edition of the _Daily Prophet_.

"**Ministry bans use of unauthorised underage Magic,"** It said in bold letters. Underneath it read: "The Ministry has decided to introduce a new law permitting only wizards over the age of seventeen years to practice spells outside school. There has been much protest. Acrybius Velnar, the influential member of the Wizengamot, argued that there are still children caught in the war-like situation our country finds itself in. He told us that it was reckless to change the laws at a time like this, but the Minister of Magic remains adamant…"

Minerva sucked in a harsh breath. First thing, her thoughts returned to Tom. How was he to survive in Muggle London, where food was being rationed and the danger of a new attack by the German Luftwaffe was still imminent, when he wasn't even allowed a simple _Protego_?

When she spoke with him about it later that day, Tom just shrugged, his features expressionless. "Don't worry about me, Minerva," he told her quite assuredly. "I can look after myself with or without this stupid ban."

"But Tom…"

"I know how to survive in Muggle London," Tom interrupted with a dangerous glint in his eyes that told her this conversation was over. "I've been doing it for nearly sixteen years, remember?"

A day later, when she watched him go toward the barrier, a tall handsome boy with a neutral, even cold look that told everyone it didn't matter a bit that there were no parents to wait for him, she began to fear for him.

And fear still gripped her when she saw her mother standing there, waiting for her.

Good Merlin. She didn't want to imagine anything happening to him.

* * *

**McGonagall Manor, Scotland, July 15th, 1942**

Contemplative summer silence was hanging over McGonagall Manor, when Gavyn McGonagall asked his daughter to share a cup of tea with him on the terrace.

Minerva looked up from the letter she was writing to Tom and followed her father slowly. Although their relationship had become better ever since their conversation in January, it was still quite strained and Minerva could not remember when she'd last had tea with her father.

Outside, her father stopped and there was a moment of awkwardness as they tried to decide where to sit down.

"Let's sit down here," Mr. McGonagall told his daughter finally and motioned to the bench at the rightmost corner of the terrace. The bench was old and rickets and white paint was peeling off of it in huge layers, yet both Minerva and her father were quite fond of it. An old rose arch leant behind it on the wall of the house, covered all over with wreaths of red roses.

Minerva sat down beside her father, who had meanwhile summoned Fletcher. The old house elf's face stretched into a wide, genuine smile when he saw the Master and Miss Minerva sit together on the bench. He was so happy that the little Miss would finally be able to establish a connection to at least one of her parents.

"Two cups of Earl Grey, please, Fletcher," Mister McGonagall requested.

Fletcher nodded, sent them another brilliant smile and disapparated with a loud crack.

For a while, father and daughter were both silent and looked over the majestic landscape surrounding them. McGonagall Manor was built on a hill, and the terrace faced the hillside that led to the village, which was visible far down in the distance. Thin grey smoke was rising up from some of the chimneys. Farther even than the village was a green belt of ancient oak trees and beyond that; glittering in the sunlight, the vast expanse of the lake. Just beyond the lakes, blurring blue with the horizon was a mountain ridge. Other, smaller hills surrounded the lake on both sides.

To the right of the Manor, the hills slowly rose to form a plateau. A narrow street cut through the steeper hills on the left side of the valley, passed the village and disappeared from view on said plateau. A single black car, an old Ford, was driving on that road; it had come from the village and was now struggling up on the serpentine road leading to the plateau.

Minerva and her father watched it from their vantage point, and when the car had disappeared behind the last turn in the road with a loud, unhappy whining sound that came from the engine, father and daughter turned to each other. "The postman," they said in unison and then smiled somewhat awkwardly.

* * *

Mr. McGonagall put his worn pipe in his mouth and puffed away in silence for some minutes, while the bees and insects buzzed around them in the summer silence.

"I can still remember when that village consisted just of a house or two," he reminisced, "that was around the turn of the Century and I was a young boy of fifteen years. A few years later I went to London to become an Auror." He paused and nodded absent-mindedly. "I know that you go there sometimes," he added and motioned to the village with his pipe. At Minerva's alarmed look, he said, gentler: "Don't worry, lass, it really doesn't matter to me. Not having more contact with Muggles and not being appreciative of their way of life is something that I deeply regret. That's a road you should never go down."

He shot Minerva a steely look and she nodded obediently. "I won't, father."

"Good, good," he sighed.

"Anyway, Minerva, I'd like to tell you a few things today that might help you to understand your parents. We have not been the best parents, Minerva, and your father knows that…but I shall attempt to explain. When I was in London, still a young man at the age of twenty-seven I met your mother. She was from a pureblood family from Wales that had lost many of its riches and its good reputation; an experience that would impress deeply upon her. A spirited young thing. I fell in love with her instantly. My own parents had died some years before; and I am ashamed to say that they were not upholding the McGonagall family name with the honour it deserved either. My father was a gambling man and my mother was too terrified of him to ever say something. I was an only child and I am glad that you have at least Andrew, my dear. It makes things easier."

Mister McGonagall complacently released a ring of smoke from his pipe.

"Anyway, where was I…my parents had died, leaving me with this house as my only heritage. When your mother agreed to marry me, I was overjoyed. The next years were not easy. I was working in London and your mother was here with little Andrew. I barely got to see them. Your mother became hard in that time; she had to. Many still looked down on the McGonagall family and your mother had to fight them each step. When I eventually returned from London, I barely recognised the spirited young woman I had married. She had become bitter, struggling with the burden that had been placed on her, yet vowing that the McGonagall family would never know the shame her own family had known. When you were born, Minerva, I was already estranged from her, deeply immersed into my work as an Auror in London. I was disciplined and rose up quickly through the ranks and over all those years I tried to forget that I had a family who needed me. After I retired five years ago…I got to think of what had happened and I must say that I am an old man. An old man, who regrets much of what happened or shall we say, didn't happen in his life. My wife has become bitter, I barely know my daughter and my son is off, voyaging around the world, if only so he can get away from his family."

Her father had hidden his face in his hands as he had finished and when he raised it, Minerva saw in shock that tears were glistening in her father's eyes. Her father was a strong man and seeing his tears almost embarrassed her and she felt vastly insecure.

"Please," Gavyn McGonagall said in a heart-felt tone and took her hand, "Minerva, do forgive me for never having been the father I should have been."

Minerva had to blink back tears of her own. They both didn't even notice Fletcher, who appeared with two cups of tea and set them down on the bench beside them, only to disapparate quickly again.

"I do forgive you, father," she mumbled and squeezed his hand. "I do."

Gavyn McGonagall nodded and they were silent for a long time. The summer silence surrounded them like a blanket. "So," he asked and there was something mischievous in his expression, maybe an echo of the young boy he had once been who had used to live in this very house, "what is that about this Mister Tom Riddle I hear about from your brother?"

Minerva's face turned scarlet. "Have you been talking to Andrew, father?"

Her father smiled sheepishly. "I wasn't sure how to approach you, but your brother has been most helpful over the years, telling me all that I had missed."

Minerva sighed. Trust Andrew to get her into this mess. "Tom..well, he…"

"Do you love him?" her father asked steadfastly. "I know that your mother would like to see you secured in a marriage with the boy of the Yaxleys. Who is that Tom Riddle?"

Minerva pondered her words carefully. "He is an orphaned boy from London. A Slytherin, half-blood. But he is brilliant, father! What does blood mean anyway? And yes," she amended, stroking a strand of black hair out of her face, "I guess I do love him." The next words were hard. "If anything, father, it is your approval that matters the most to me. You even got to know him. Tom, I mean. I brought him here two years ago."

Her father was silent for a long time. Then, he cleared his throat. "That was Tom then...I am sorry, I forget a lot these days. I remember liking him. He was a polite lad. Your mother won't like this. But if you really do love him, Minerva- I only wish for your happiness. Do you want to marry him?"

Marriage. Yes, it was expected of women of her age sooner or later and Minerva knew it. Yet the idea of marrying Tom seemed foreign to her. Tom was not the type to marry anyone and Minerva knew that she herself wanted to be someone before entering into a marriage with anyone.

"I don't know whether I want to marry anyone in the next years, father, but if it were, I'd marry Tom," she answered eventually truthfully. "But I should very much like to become more like you, father. I would like to work for the Ministry."

There was surprise in her father's eyes for just a moment before he hummed contemplatively. "That is a most perilous road, dear child, yet I shouldn't have expected anything less from you. You were always head-strong." He heaved a huge sigh. "I have wronged you a many times before, Minerva, and thus I shall support you in your wishes."

"Even against Mother?" Minerva asked, holding her breath.

Decades-old sadness flashed through her father's eyes. "Yes. Even against your mother, though I am hoping that it won't have to come to that. Despite all, she loves you truly and she, like I, only wishes the best for you."

Minerva would have liked to reply that she doubted that very much but she didn't say it because she knew that it would only hurt her father to have her say something like that.

Thus, she remained quiet. A lone black bird flew through her peripheral vision just then and she turned her head to look after it as it flew over the lake to disappear as just a small speck in the distance. For a moment, Minerva looked after it and wondered what it would be like to fly so freely.

* * *

On the next day, Andrew's Owl Makarios delivered a letter to Minerva. She read it in a hurry; her eyes lighting up as she had finished. Andrew wanted her to meet a girl he had become very fond of. He was even thinking of proposing to her, but asked that Minerva would only show their parents the second letter in which he asked her to come visit him at the flat he'd bought in Oxford.

The reason for Minerva's elation was quite simple; Oxford was not far from London. Maybe she'd get to visit Tom…even the prospect made her heart beat faster. She had been quite worried for him for the last letter he'd written her had told her of the current food shortages in London.

Disregarding all of her good manners, she came running into the living room, waving the letter. "Mother, Father, this is from Andrew."

Her mother studied the letter for a moment and then said appalled: "Absolutely not. You can't visit your brother. We have to arrange the preparations for the union with William Yaxley."

When Minerva caught her father's eyes he nodded in defeat. "Adelaide," he said calmly to Minerva's mother, "I'd like to have a word with you. And you, Minerva, I should like to ask to go to your room."

Minerva nodded her consent, but when she was outside she stayed near the door. She wanted to hear this.

"What do you think you are doing, Gavyn?" her mother asked shrilly. "I am only trying to look out for the girl."

"Yes, I know," her father said soothingly, "but have you ever considered that this might not be what the girl wants? She is old enough to decide for herself."

There was a long pause and then her mother spoke, her voice suspiciously choked-up as she said between what sounded like sobs: "All I've ever done was for this family, Gavyn. Everything…"

Minerva turned to go, her face set in stone. She had heard enough.

* * *

_tbc_

_Annotation:_

_Britannia and Eve _was a popular British women's magazine at the time Minerva and Tom were in school. _  
_


	19. 1942 Part III

_Hi :) First of all, thank you for the lovely reviews, **Mara, PottyParker** (so this chapter took me longer than I initially thought today :)), **Codie** (I am with you there, Tom has something swoon-worthy about him, but it's not a good idea, you're right there; anyway- I am so glad you like the story!), **Sarafina** (glad you liked the chapter, hope you like this one also) and **Anne**! _

_Something I want to say- some of Tom's world views might be a bit offensive. Just so you know, those are his opinions, and in no way mine_** ;) **_Tom is, after all, a very extreme person and would probably also have extreme opinions._

_I hope that I'll get the next update up soon, because the new university term is approaching...but for now, I hope you like this one. Please tell me your thoughts :) Reviews make my day!_

_Sachita_

* * *

**Chapter Eighteen**_  
_

**Andrew McGonagall's flat, Oxford, England, July 25****th****, 1942**

Inéz Martha Thomas, Andrew's fiancée, was from San Diego, California and brought with her a hint of sunny beaches and sea spray of a faraway country. It was there in the way she threw her head back for a hearty laugh and in the way her amber eyes sparkled when she looked at Andrew. She had been born in 1921, the daughter of a family affiliated with the Californian version of Gringotts, making her six years Andrew's junior and four years Minerva's senior.

She might be called beautiful, Minerva observed discreetely, with the modest rose dress, her tanned complexion, the wild chocolate curls that had been piled up in the popular mix of bun and hair rolls that many women wore nowadays. It looked good on Inéz. Minerva scowled and bent over her crumpets again.

For some minutes, the sound of clinking china was the only thing that could be heard in the dining room, the only room in Andrew's flat that their Mother might call well-furnished with its heavy blue curtains, the yellow candles and the silver cutlery on the flower-patterned table cloth of the round dining table. It was not a comfortable silence and Minerva was sweating in her high-necked burgundy velvet dress. She made the mistake to look up in to Inéz's curious eyes. Hastily, Minerva lowered her eyes again and played with the white cloth napkin on her lap.

"So," Andrew asked and there was a little sigh in his voice, as though he was tired of this situation already, "how are things at home with Father and Mother?"

Minerva's eyes widened. He knew perfectly well what it was like at home, didn't he? So why was he asking now, in front of Inéz? Was this some mismatched attempt at including Inéz into the resident cordial family history?

"Fine," she said shortly.

Inéz apparently sensed her dismay at the topic and attempted, in a falsely cheerful voice, another approach: "So how is Hogwarts, Minerva? I myself went to Salem, but I heard that Hogwarts's Library surpasses Salem's and is even supposed to be the largest of all Wizard Schools in the world, isn't it?"

"So they say," Minerva replied, just an inch away from being outright rude. She wondered, in a quite desperate manner, what her own problem was. For some reason Inéz had come off as unsympathetic the moment she'd stepped through the door. It had little to do with Inéz herself, Minerva realised with sudden insight; it was herself who was the problem.

Andrew had been her sole confidant for so long; her revered older brother. Of course he'd often been on trips around the world and Minerva had seen little of him, but she knew that if she sent an owl he'd attempt to do her wrongs right to the best of her abilities.

And now, there was Inéz…Inéz, who was gracious and kind-hearted if a bit talkative; yet the perfect woman for a man like Andrew…Minerva paused with her fork half-way to her mouth. She was jealous. Minerva frowned, angered at herself, yet she couldn't prevent herself from replying with a terse "Yes" to Inéz next query regarding whether she'd be headgirl next school year.

Feeling the weight of Andrew's disappointed and dismayed gaze on her, she added "The letter arrived yesterday."

Andrew seemed to have had enough. He stirred his tea twice with his silver teaspoon twice and then brought the teacup with a firm hand to his mouth, but when he set it down; his hand was trembling in anger. Minerva felt a little afraid; her brother did have the legendary McGonagall temper, too, but while it flared up hotly in Minerva quite often, her brother had the same calm disposition as their father. When he was truly angered, though, Andrew McGonagall could be a fearsome sight to behold.

"Inéz," Andrew asked in a carefully controlled voice, "would you like to retire to your room? I am sure you are tired. The day has been a long one."

Inéz understood what he meant to say without so many words. She nodded gracefully and got up, placing a light kiss on Andrew's right cheek before exiting the room in a rustle of rose silk.

* * *

Andrew didn't say anything for a quite long while. He simply kept his gaze on the window, looking out at Oxford's busy streets, stirring the tea in his cup with his silver spoon.

Minerva winced slightly as he let the spoon fall into the tea cup with a loud clatter and finally turned to face her. His hazel eyes, normally so cheerful, were sparkling with disappointment.

"When I asked you to come visit me, Minerva, I was looking forward to introducing Inéz to you. Now I did not think that you two would immediately become the best of friends, but I do confess I certainly did not expect you to act in the manner you did earlier. Inéz has travelled a long way for me and is quite out of her depth in a foreign country. I am planning to marry her and the only thing she wants is to get to know you because she knows how much you mean to me and the least _you_ could do is to show some consideration."

Andrew's voice had risen in volume during the last two sentences and Minerva flinched as if struck. She clenched her pale hands tightly together and eventually said in a small voice: "I am sorry."

Andrew's voice softened as he regarded her: "You look tired, Min. Has it been so bad at home?"

Minerva laughed shakily, fiddling with the end of her long French plait. "Well, you know what Mother is like. Presently, as you know, she approves of a marriage with William Yaxley, telling me it's for the good of the family." She held up a hand to keep Andrew from commenting on that and then bit her lip. "I am sorry for my behaviour. I guess- I- well- I didn't want to get to know her because I feared that she might take you away from me."

Minerva didn't dare look up. She kept her head down and gazed at her pale hands lying on the red velvet in her lap. Andrew came to stand behind her chair and put his hands on her shoulders to squeeze them affectionately.

"I am your older brother, Min. That won't change. And I'll be there for you whenever you need me."

Minerva half-turned around to take his hand. "I know," she whispered and for a moment, as they regarded each other, their eyes were suspiciously moist. Then they both cleared their throat awkwardly and Andrew tactfully averted his gaze while his sister dried her eyes.

"So Mother wants to marry you off," Andrew said finally. "I expected nothing less from her." He sighed deeply and started to pace up and down the living room. "You have got to respect Mother's decisions, Minerva," he spoke eventually firmly.

Minerva laughed in disbelief and pushed a stray lock of hair out of her eyes. "Respect them? She doesn't respect me! Andrew, you really have to stop defending Mother."

Andrew didn't seem insulted; in fact, Minerva knew that it was very hard to truly insult her easy-going brother. "I have done a lot of thinking on Mother and Father and our rather dysfunctional family when I was away," he said carefully, "and I have come to the conclusion that we neither live in the 19th Century nor are what one would consider a happy family. I know that Mother is not always right and you are a strong individual. The notion that women should not do as they wish is an outdated one."

Minerva stared. Her brother had learned tolerance in his work for the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, getting to know many cultures and ways of life; but for a man of his generation and of the world they were living in; this decade- the 1940s- his statement was downright revolutionary.

Andrew chuckled as he became aware of her look. "Why, Min, don't look so shocked. I can't see you as dutiful housewife behind the hearth. I have known that this is not you and will never be for a long time." He smiled nostalgically, sadly. "I knew it when I was twenty years old and you had just turned ten- you wore a pair of my trousers and you had cut them off at the knees so they would fit you. When Mother reprimanded you for wearing trousers, you just gave her a blank look and asked why she was angry, for I was wearing trousers, too…" The nostalgic look faded to sincerity and a fond smile lit his features up.

"Respecting Mother doesn't mean that you have to whatever she tells you to do."

Minerva beamed wordlessly; glad she had found another supporter to her cause. There was no one whose approval mattered so much to her as her brother's.

"So," Andrew said finally, "if we are already on the topic of you eloping- whatever happened to your Tom Riddle?" Minerva frowned, thinking moodily of her latest owl that hadn't returned with a reply yet.

"He is in London at the moment."

"London? In that Muggle Orphanage?" Andrew seemed shocked. "They have serious food shortages in London these days…" He frowned. "He was an alright enough lad; a bit serious if you ask me. And you should probably feed him some, he was quite scrawny," he had the cheek to add. Minerva hit her older brother lightly on the shoulder at his audacious comment, crying: "Andrew!"

Her brother smirked, his bad mood quite forgotten.

"So what are we waiting for, Min? London's just a hundred kilometres from here…"

"Drew!" Minerva shouted, jumping into his arms.

Her childhood hero was back. And maybe this bond with Inéz wasn't such a bad thing after all.

* * *

**Wool's Orphanage, London's East End, August 1****st****, 1942**

The orphanage building looked worse than what Minerva remembered from her last visit there, but then again that had been in the middle of the night and right in the middle of the Blitz wreaking havoc on London.

Hesitantly, she opened the smaller door next to the large, distinctly unfriendly-looking iron gate. In huge lettering it said just above the gate "Wool's Orphanage", but the second "a" was dangling upside down so that it now read "Wool's Orphan_ge", giving the entire thing a rather shabby feeling. Minerva was quite glad to feel Andrew's reassuring hand on her arm as they crossed the distance between the iron gate and the simple wooden entrance door of the main building, walking through what seemed to be the garden.

A few scatterings of insipid green could be seen there and there but on the whole the so-called garden did not deserve the term for it consisted of mud and lustreless grey pebbles.

The wooden entrance door was opened slightly and Minerva called out a hesitant "Hello?"

The door was opened fully a few moments later and a small woman faced them. She was clad in the fashion of the 1900s, wearing a simple yet stern high-cut black dress. Her greying hair was tied up in an old-fashioned knot and she looked them up and down with hard grey eyes. Weariness was inscribed in every wrinkle of her face, every motion that she made. Even her voice was weary as she asked, rather bluntly so, what they wanted.

As Andrew explained, she cast a disbelieving look at them. "I remember you. You came for that boy before. In the night after the 29th back in '40. I really can't understand what you want with him, but for all I know, I shall be glad to be rid of him for a while. We have serious food shortages, I am sure you understand."

"How can you be so cold?" Minerva burst out, angered at that woman for referring to Tom in such a derogatory way. The woman, Miss Cole, as Minerva surmised, looked her in the face rather jadedly.

"You try being the matron of an orphanage, dearie, and you'll see that you will soon enough only measure every face for the amount of food it needs every day. We don't have time for things like affection here for we are too busy trying not to starve. I am sure you do understand, _Miss_." She cast a derisive look at Minerva's fine blue dress and said the last word with scorn dripping from her voice that was, like she herself, aged beyond its years. It was a scratchy, weary voice and Minerva found no reply to the woman's words because suddenly an immeasurable amount of pity for that hard small woman in front of her rose up in her mind, but she knew that she would never be allowed to say so.

"Well, sir," Miss Cole said to Andrew, "if you would follow me to the office we can take care of the formalities. Your sister"- and neither of them had told Miss Cole that they were siblings, but long years of leading the orphanage had made the small woman very perceptive, when she wasn't drinking her sorrows away, that is- "well, she can fetch the boy. He is in the dining room. To your right," she added.

Andrew went with Miss Cole down the long, dull corridors to their left and Minerva was alone to face the heavy wooden door from which Miss Cole had said that it led to the dining room.

Carefully, she pushed it open. There were long rows of tables inside the dull room. Minerva counted four, each equipped with many, many rickety chairs. The walls were grey and the only sources of light were some square windows facing the garden Minerva and her brother had crossed on the way to the entrance. The dining tables were all occupied, but Minerva froze for a moment because the children sitting there looked more like puppets than like real children. They seemed frozen in the dusty silence, staring at their meagre meals, all with the same apathetic expression.

A girl around Minerva's age finally became aware of her. "Who are you?" she asked, not unfriendly, but in a rather curious manner.

Minerva looked at her. She seemed like a nice girl, if pale and drawn from not having enough to eat. Her brown hair was put up in a long braid that was curled around her head rather sloppily. Her brown eyes watched Minerva carefully.

"I am looking for Tom Riddle," Minerva announced and immediately the girl's expression became shuttered, her eyes downcast and fearful. "He's sitting at the window," she muttered and turned away.

"What do you want with Tom?" a boy spoke up, his complexion ruddy, his hair a fierce red colour and his eyes whose colour was hardly discernible in the dusty light rather aggressive. "He is a freak. I don't know what someone like you could want from him…except if you are freak like him."

"Shut it, Billy," a boy with a melancholic face sitting next to the boy called Billy, said. His expression seemed resigned. "Unless you want to get in trouble."

Billy scowled, but he shut his mouth and turned back to his meal, consisting of watered-down porridge. No one looked at Minerva anymore and so she walked through the rows of sitting orphans to the back of the room, feeling rather out of place. The girl's fearful face flashed in front of her eyes. What had Tom done to make them fear him so?

Tom was sitting at the table underneath the window, as the girl had said. He was munching on what seemed to resemble bread, but it seemed to have been baked sometime around the turn of the century. "Ah, Minerva," he greeted her hoarsely, not even looking up, treating her as if her arrival in the middle of the orphanage was a normal occurrence. "I see you met Amy, Billy and Dennis."

Minerva stood there for a few moments, simply looking at him. Tom was horribly gaunt and Minerva imagined that his hand trembled slightly as he put the thing resembling bread to his mouth. He was startling pale, even if his cheeks were flushed in a strange manner and sunken-in while his eyes seemed larger than normal. A cough wracked his thin frame. His clothes; a white shirt and pleated black trousers worn with a pair of braces, were frayed and thin. He looked like a shadow of the Tom Minerva knew.

"Tom," she whispered, stretching out a hand as if to soothe a wild animal, "Tom, what happened to you?" He looked up at that, his eyes feverish and his face unnaturally flushed.

A quizzical frown passed over his face. "You are really here. What are you doing here?"

"Fetching you from this horrible place, of course." Minerva had to sit down.

"Oh," Tom merely mumbled rather apathetically. "Are you now."  
Minerva stared at the bread-like white thing he still held in his hand. "What is that?"

"Bread, of course," Tom replied with a maniacal grin, his eyes gleaming horribly. Now that she was closer to him Minerva could see that there was sweat beading on his brow and his dark hair was sweat-soaked and sticking to his forehead. Add to that the flushed face…

"Tom, are you ill?"

"I have been better," he replied dryly with a hint of the Tom Minerva knew. But then, he stretched his hand out and touched her arm, before drawing it back with a hint of amazement in his dark eyes. Minerva frowned but Tom didn't give her the chance to comment on his strange behaviour. Covering up his momentary weakness expertly, he asked: "Where do you want to take me? To your parents' house?"

"No," Minerva replied distractedly, "my brother Andrew has a flat in Oxford…"  
A sudden movement made her turn around but as she did so, the heads of the other orphans were bent dutifully over their meals. Minerva frowned and turned back to Tom. The feeling of being watched was there as soon as she turned to him again.

"They are afraid," Tom stated calmly. "Of what I can do. What we can do. Amy and Dennis I taught a lesson, many many years ago." He seemed to be rambling, slightly maniacally even and looked really uncoordinated, both in thoughts and actions. When Minerva put a hand on his forehead he let her and even leaned into her cool touch. His forehead was hot and sweaty. When she withdrew her hand, Tom shivered visibly and she could hear his teeth chattering.

"Come, Tom," Minerva mumbled and allowed him to lean on her as she led him from the dining hall. No one looked at her yet there were hundreds of eyes on them. When they passed Billy, Amy and Dennis, Tom gave them a look. They hastily bent over their meals. As soon as they had passed the oak door and closed it behind them, Minerva could hear loud chatter starting up behind them.

Tom was trembling next to her, but saying nothing, his face stoic.

Andrew, when he came back, took a good look at Tom and seemed horrified at the state he was in.

"Welcome, Tom," he said simply, obviously sensing that Tom wasn't coherent enough for long speeches. "Do you need to take your things with you?"

"There is a trunk," Tom managed, "in my room. I don't unpack."

Andrew frowned but fetched the trunk. When he came back down with it, he merely said to the two of them: "Come on."

On the way back to Andrew's car- they had taken the car because Andrew, for some odd reason, loved travelling with the car and complained that he got to do it so seldom- Tom was trembling all over and looking as if he was about to fall over.

On the way to Oxford, all three of them were silent. Tom's head sank down from time to time and he would quickly jerk it up again and startle himself into awareness. Minerva watched this repeat itself a few times and then inched carefully closer so he could pillow his head on her shoulder. Tom fell asleep immediately and Minerva held onto him tightly, feeling bouts of shivering wrack his thin frame. Andrew pretended to be oblivious to all going on the backseat.

Eventually, though, he remarked seriously: "It's a good thing we got him out of there."

Minerva couldn't help but agree. Her eyes stung as she regarded Tom's sad state and she was very glad that he was here with them now and not in the greyness and apathy of the orphanage.

* * *

Tom had to stay in bed for an entire week, fighting the remains of a bad flu. He made a horrible patient once he had recovered from his feverish stupor and complained about every little thing. Once the week was over, there was no holding him back.

Minerva introduced him properly to Inéz and Tom was a perfect gentleman, although his eyes were sparkling with amusement as he looked in-between Minerva and Inéz and Minerva dreaded the inevitable comment that she knew had to follow soon. When he met Andrew again, Tom took the time to thank him very courteously. Andrew quite approved of his manners and he told Minerva so.

Once Tom had discovered the books Andrew had in his flat, he could often be found sitting somewhere with a book up to his nose if Minerva didn't drag him away. They spent enjoyable weeks that way, sometimes walking through Oxford's busy streets or sometimes just sitting inside and having a cup of tea, while discussing over everything and nothing for hours. Their debates were often heated but that didn't matter for both of them enjoyed discussing in an intelligent manner. Minerva was glad to see Tom recuperate from his ordeal.

* * *

On one evening they happened to stumble onto a Muggle fair and Minerva dragged a scowling Tom along.

"Come on!" she yelled, laughing in excitement as she saw the lights of the fair-rides and candy stands. A few children with large cotton candies passed them and Tom looked distinctly annoyed at their screams, while Minerva was downright cheerful.

She'd never had something like this in Scotland and she truly felt like a kind in a candy store, as that American saying went.

There was a brand-new looking carousel; it was propelled by a sort of steering wheel held by a man wearing a garish red hat and an outdated red frock with golden buttons as well as knee-breeches and buckled shoes: "Ladies and Gentlemen!" he announced in a powerful baritone voice that reverberated over the fairground and whose undertones told of Ireland's green hills, "come on closer, come on closer, I say! This is a sensation! This is a small version of the switchback railroad and it was first put into use in '39 and it's never been to Oxford before either! So come and have the time of your life! Come on in, come on in, it's just a sixpence, just a Tanner, you know you can spare that…"

Tom didn't see the sense in spending a whole two sixpence on a carousel ride, but he acquiesced in the end. "If you want to waste your money like that, then by all means, be my guest."

When they were on the carousel, though, Tom seemed to enjoy the wild ride and even more so Minerva's screams whenever the switchback railroad went into a "valley", judging by the way his smile was slowly widening every time she shrieked in half-joy, half-terror.

Later, they strolled around the fairground, hand in hand, listening to the faint music coming from somewhere nearby. They were playing "I'll be seeing you" until the music switched to Vera Lynn's "The White Cliffs of Dover". Minerva liked this song and she said so.

Tom gave Minerva a sweet kiss, tasting of candyfloss and roasted almonds. She whispered into his ear: "I wish this day would never end."

* * *

**Oxford, England, August 20th, 1942**

Andrew and his sister shared a fierce love for books, which was why an entire room of Andrew's flat had been made into a library.

When Minerva entered the room, she had to bite back a small laugh. Tom's dark head of hair was bent over a book and his look could only be described as "hungrily devouring", while a huge, precariously-balanced pile of dusty volumes next to him spoke of further research aspirations.

He had flung his long, lean body carelessly into a corner of the murky room, plaited black trouser-clad legs bent at such a weird angle that Minerva truly wondered if it was comfortable. The book was nearly up to his nose. Professor Dumbledore was always wondering how to keep Tom from scheming, wasn't he? Well, stuff Tom inside a room with a large collection of rare books and Dumbledore wouldn't have to worry about a thing!

"Uh, Tom, "Minerva called with a smile in her voice. He didn't react.

"Tom?"

This time he looked up, eyes glowing.

"Minerva," he breathed, voice awed. "This is incredible…"

"Yes," she replied dryly, "but you still need to eat, preferably something else than books."

She held out the dinner plate to him and he eagerly took the cutlery. He ate ravenously and when he became aware of Minerva's amazed look merely said: "Guess I am hungry. Did I miss dinner?"

Minerva thought of another tense dinner with Andrew and Inéz. Try as she might, reaching a common ground with Inéz was still very difficult. "Don't worry about it. I told them that you are recuperating and I know you wanted some time alone."

Tom shot her a piercing, questioning look from dark blue eyes but he nodded eventually.

Minerva sat down next to him and while Tom finished his meal, they were silent. She watched the blue shadows of the shelves and the dust motes that played in the air, visible due to the sudden sun-glare through the dusty little window in the corner. The high book shelves, filled with books of all shapes and sizes seemed to reach on endlessly and as Minerva stared up at them she wondered just how many books had been squeezed onto the cramped shelves. A hundred? A thousand?

"So Andrew is settling down with Inéz," Tom stated conversationally into the quiet, neatly placing the cutlery on the plate and setting it down next to him with precise movements.

"Yes," Minerva replied noncommittally.

Then, when he looked at her expectantly, she added: "I am happy for him. She is a fine woman."

Tom laughed lowly. "Only that you can't stand her."

Minerva was surprised; how by Merlin's beard did he know?

"Well, it was hardly missable," Tom replied dismissively to her quizzical look. "You were glaring daggers at her all the way through lunch."

"Was I?" Minerva's cheeks warmed. "Was it so obvious?"

Tom looked unperturbed. "Yes."

"I am trying, but she can be very forward at times and it's hard to deal with that," Minerva admitted in defeat.

"Maybe that is what Andrew needs," Tom answered smoothly.

"Can you imagine us like that?" Minerva's voice quivered in spite of her best effort to suppress it, as she posed that question, and try as she might, her thoughts returned that house Poppy had once envisioned for Tom and Minerva to live in, in that quiet English village…_A rose garden,_ she thought distractedly, _I would very much like to have a rose garden._

Marriage was expected of their generation; one didn't just have a gentleman friend without being married and Minerva knew that if they wanted to keep up their union they would have to marry if only to adhere to societal rules.

"Marry?" Tom scoffed and shattered all her hopes and illusions with that single word. "Dear Merlin, I hope you are not serious." He took a long look at her and his face fell. "You are."

Even if Minerva tried her best to blink them away, the silly tears had come again, a few making their way down her face. "It's okay," she choked out, "it truly is."

Tom surprised her yet again by scooting closer and gently putting his arms around her. A few more tears escaped because of that unexpected gesture and Minerva wiped them away defiantly.

"If your mother forces you to marry before you turn seventeen and can decide for yourself or if she threatens to disown you, I will marry you, you know that. I wasn't joking when I said so."

Tom gazed at her unflinchingly and she almost quivered under that steely gaze but held her ground. She, Minerva McGonagall, would never back down from anyone. Not even from him, he who was so expert at making her long and yearn for him, he, whose touches burned like fire, yet whose eyes could be so cold, he who said words of love but was capable of despicable thoughts. Tom.

"I stand to my promises," he continued and held her look for a long time.

Then he abruptly broke eye contact and his voice was lighter when he added:

"Imagine us as a married couple, Minerva. Wouldn't we make a lovely couple? You stupefy me and make me fall from tables, as such sending me to hospital. I make plans to reform the wizard world, while you do your best to thwart them. I am an admirer of Niccolò Machiavelli while you probably support the notion of a general will that all people follow and which is good for the entirety put forth by Jean-Jacques Rousseau. What a load of tosh. But before we embark on a philosophical debate; let me state that the strangest thing about you is your taste. I love fish and chips while you eat Haggis. Haggis, for God's sake!"

He grinned cheekily, while Minerva, who wasn't sure whether she should be amused or upset by his speech opted for the former – what good did being upset do her anyway?- and replied: "I'll have you know that Haggis is delicious. You just probably never had a proper good one."

Tom nodded sagely; humour dancing through his dark eyes. "Probably." He seemed to be struggling not to add a cheeky comment or the other.

"Plus," he finally continued, "I do and I know you do, too, wish to gain some experience in life before committing to something life-altering as a marriage._ "Making something of me"_, as Miss Cole once suggested. Mind you, she said, I ought to become a postman because at age seven I was extraordinarily good at arranging my things. So she told me that good organisation skills are the ideal prerequisite for becoming a postman. Post- Tom, here I come!" He snorted derisively. "It even rhymes," he muttered sardonically and pulled such a disgusted face at the mere notion of him being a postman that Minerva laughed.

No, he was right, she reflected. She was a free woman with choices and with him at her side, married or not, she could do everything. In that moment she felt as if she could face Grindewald and even come out victorious.

* * *

**Oxford, England, August 22nd,1942**

Minerva was sleeping with her window half-opened in her dark, wood-panelled room. The entire flat had been furnished in the Victorian area and it was this room which showed it the most; with its floral wallpapers, the elegant upholstered davenport standing near the window and the portrait on the wall opposite her bed showing a young woman. Minerva had looked at her delicate face for a long time when she had first seen the picture. The woman had an oddly hypnotic gaze, sadness in her eyes and an oddly tragic air, in the way she held her dark head and gazed out of the portrait with those dark fathomless eyes. It was a portrait done of a Muggle woman and when Minerva had asked Andrew, he hadn't been able to tell her anything about the woman. Minerva quite liked the portrait and she had fancied when she had gone to sleep that night that the woman was watching over her.

The moonlight fell through the window in that night in wide shafts and allowed only just to make out the contours of the bed and her peaceful, sleeping face.

A light touch on her arm from a dark figure that stood next to the bed made her startle awake with a harsh gasp. "Minerva, calm down. It's just me."

"Tom?" The now fully-opened window gave Minerva, who was sitting up in bed, a good idea of how he had come in. Tom's bedroom was just next to hers and he couldn't have taken the door for he would have needed to pass through Andrew's bedroom beforehand and Minerva doubted he had done that, so…

"Did you climb across the lattice?" she asked, aghast.

Tom's teeth gleamed white in the moonlight as he smiled, slightly maniacally. His eyes glittered with an amused light. "Fight your fears, isn't that what they always say?" he asked rhetorically and added with a strange sort of pride, "I nearly fell."

Minerva scowled and shook her head in dismay. Briefly, she ran a hand through her dishevelled hair, wondering how she must look like to him in that moment, in her thin white nightdress; still caught in the bed sheets that were painfully white in the light of the moon, and with her dark hair falling in loose tangles to her waist. What was he doing in her room at this time of the night though?

Disregarding the inappropriateness; a word that could not be found in Tom's vocabulary, she opened her mouth to pose a question, when Tom suddenly tucked a lock of dark hair behind her ear, muttering, "You are so beautiful, Minerva."

Minerva started, she hadn't noticed that he'd come so close.

For a while they both remained awkwardly silent- Minerva was painfully aware of his closeness. His warm breath on her face made the fine hair on her back stand on end.

"I was wondering," Tom said suddenly in an odd voice, "I couldn't sleep and I was wondering whether you'd like to dance with me."  
"Dance, Tom?" Minerva reached out as if to check his temperature, but when her hand hovered in front of his forehead, he batted it away.

"I am fine, Minerva. There was this song some days ago, at the Fair, and I couldn't get it out of my head."

"And you couldn't have waited with that for a reasonable time of the day?" Minerva sniped wryly.

"That takes away the romantic aspect of it all, wouldn't you agree, Minerva?" he murmured, coming closer again and Minerva couldn't tell whether he was serious or not. This strange-minded, crazily-rambling boy in front of her certainly couldn't be her Tom, now could it? Tom was after all about as romantic as a wooden board but she decided to humour him, if only so he would stop coming so close to her.

"Which song are you talking about?" she asked eventually, already guessing it.

Tom withdrew his wand and looked at it almost reverently. Minerva didn't have to ask why, with Andrew having sent the necessary forms to the Ministry it was now possible for both of them to do magic again for the duration of their stay at Andrew's, who was acting as the legal guardian in that case. Minerva had been allowed to do magic at her parents' house for the Ministry rule said that in that case the parents were the responsible persons, but Tom hadn't been allowed to do magic at the Orphanage for months.

He first cast a _Muffiliato _so no-one else would hear it and then flicked his wand again. A familiar tune started up as a smoky woman's voice started to sing. "Vera Lynn," Minerva said softly, recognising the song as "The White Cliffs of Dover."

Tom pulled her to her feet and she allowed him, swaying along to the familiar tune, as the unforgettable Vera Lynn sang about peace and bluebirds flying over the white cliffs of Dover. Minerva and Tom danced to the slow music, nearly floating, or at least that was how it felt to Minerva- she thought that she might actually be weightless in that breathless moment.

"I love you, Minerva," Tom whispered quietly and this time she actually believed him. He trailed hot kisses along her collarbone and moved a hand along her smooth leg. She felt tingly all over and when he kissed her fully, she responded eagerly, tangling her fingers into his dark locks.

For the rest of her life, Minerva was never sure whether the owl that came flying through the open window with an urgent letter and a loud squawk meant a sense of relief or disappointment to her in that moment.

* * *

Michael Mackenzie was dead. Minerva seemed nearly struck dumb by that message; her face had paled rapidly as soon as she had read the letter from her friend- Abigail, was it- and was now sitting on her bed, whispering: "He was only twenty years old…"

Tom discreetly hid a sneer.

He had never much cared for Michael Mackenzie, that villager with the communist aspirations. Tom knew more about communism than he had let on that day when he had met Minerva's villagers. London's East End was a workers' quarter and many of them were redder than anyone else.

* * *

On an unfriendly and cold November day, some odd six years ago, Tom had been loitering around the orphanage, sitting on the front stairs with a book on his lap. A heavily-built man with a dark flat-cap and a long grey coat and a grim expression on his face had appeared from a side street.

He had shot Tom a look from underneath his heavy dark brows, looking at his shabby short trousers and the knee-length grey socks that did a poor job of hiding Tom's scabbed knees; then, apparently deciding that an orphanage boy was no threat, had pushed his cigarette from one corner of his mouth to the other and then vanished in the adjacent brick building.

Others, clad much like the man, had followed and Tom would glance up from his book- ironically a book by Karl Marx he'd found on the orphanage's attic- in puzzled silence as the men disappeared one after one in the brick building.

After a while, the man with the cigarette had returned, gazing at Tom with a twinkle in the eye. He had seemed like someone who liked to laugh. Tom had scowled at him.

"Karl Marx, eh?," the man had asked, pushing his cigarette to the other corner of his mouth while his smile had widened.

Tom, with no idea of the significance of that name for communism then, had merely nodded.

"You seem like someone who knows what's important. Come on in, lad, you do seem like a bright boy."

So Tom had followed the man into the brick building, and, after around of introductions "Everyone, this is Tom- lad here's bright and wants to learn something in life"- Tom had taken part in the London Whitechapel meeting of the Communist Party of Great Britain.

The blue smoke from the men's pipes had soon made him feel sleepy. The men had talked a lot about equality, workers' wages and the people's uprising, but it had made little sense to Tom. Not because he didn't understood the theory, but because he had thought about it and it still hadn't made a great deal of sense to him.

At that time, his child thought processes had went along those lines: equality meant that everyone had to share with one another, right? But Tom had even at the tender age of ten been sure that if asked, Miss Cole wouldn't be willing to share her secret stash of chocolates or her nice, spacious room with him. Neither would Billy Stubbs, who had always like to hog the scrambled eggs at breakfast be willing to share with Tom, why, Tom would have got a bloody nose if he had tried sweet-talking Billy into sharing with him.

Tom quirked a mirthless smile as he thought of his naïve thoughts now; but in one thing he'd been right- idealistic dreamers and their utopian dreams would forever remain impossibility.

* * *

Minerva was still sitting on the bed, softly crying. Tom detested seeing her like that. He walked over to her and sat down right next to her.

"Oh come on, Min, that bloke is not worth your tears," he tried. Minerva shot him an icy glare from red-rimmed eyes. "Michael was my friend!"  
Friend! Tom scoffed some more. A rejected lover, more like. Was she truly so blind? Had she not seen the lusty glances that Michael had thrown her when Tom had last seen him? No, it was truly not a pity that the bloke was dead, but since it seemed to mean so much to Minerva, Tom attempted to retain a measure of civility.

"Come, come," he muttered uncomfortably and patted Minerva's back, copying the soothing motions he'd seen Miss Cole do, whenever one of the stupid little children at the orphanage had come running to her, crying about "Tom's evilness." His evilness! Those stupid Muggles deserved no consideration and the children in the orphanage deserved no better either.

He was greater than them, better, better than this dingy orphanage in that dingy, run-down quarter, better than the men with their pipes and talk about equality. There was no equality; only suppression and power. You could either be the one being suppressed or the suppressor. Tom had already made his choice.

Minerva cried for a long time; not only for Michael, Tom suspected, but he didn't know what else she would be crying for. It never occurred to him that she might be crying for him, too, for he thought, with all the clarity of mind that only insanity can give, that his was the right path. Adhering to societal rules- that meant nothing to Tom. But he knew that he couldn't tell Minerva about it all for he had this inexplicable weakness for her that he was disgusted with sometimes.

Minerva fell asleep on Tom's shoulder after a long while of crying.

Tom crossed his legs and moved her head to lie in his lap. He stroked over her loose dark hair that glided, smooth like an obsidian waterfall, over his knees.

"I don't know what it is about you that fascinates me so, Minerva," he mumbled into the quiet of this old room that had surely seen its fair share of drama already, "but you do fascinate me and I've never been good at letting go."

Minerva stirred in her exhausted sleep and Tom resumed his soothing caresses. "I won't let harm come to you, my Minerva," he continued meditatively, "and no one is going to take you away from me, least of all that old fool, Dumbledore."

He gave a short laugh, eerie in the quiet of the night-shrouded room while his eyes glittered with a strange light, worrisome in its madness and fearsome in its determination. "But you and me, we are not like Romeo and Juliet, are we? We never were." He smirked slowly as he thought about it. Romeo had been a fool in Tom's eyes. Dying for love, dying for anything surely was a fool's move. Tom was no fool. He had never been one.

Suddenly tired from the last months and this day, Tom closed his eyes, planning to rest them for just a minute. But not even he was immune to the pull of sleep and so his hand slowly slid from Minerva's hair to come to rest on the pillow while he sank back against the bed's headboard. Soon enough his breaths came regularly and deeply.

He dreamed, ironically enough, of Shakespeare. Tom was Hamlet; determined to do right as he saw it and Minerva was his fair Ophelia. Tom dreamed that as he watched powerlessly on she slowly sank into the water of a stream, looking sorrowful yet remorseless as she sank from sight. His legs, as they worked again, carried him to the edge of the lake and as he stared into it in panic, he saw Minerva's limp body; floating in the water, dark hair fanning out like a halo and skin alabaster, yet her body so motionless, still in death…

Tom started awake; gasping horribly. Sweat was beading in his hairline and running down his neck, soaking his shirt collar. Trembling, he looked down in his lap. Minerva was there- she was breathing-she was alive- she was-

He pulled her closer possessively in a fit of something akin to panic, the dream still haunting his thoughts. Death was the one thing he was truly afraid of- first and foremost his own, but also hers…for she was an asset.

Tom paused for a moment as a nagging, doubtful inner voice spoke up, asking scornfully if that was all Minerva meant to him…Love, love…he turned the word over in his head. It weakened you and Tom would not be weak, like his mother. His mother, who had been a witch, but who had been so weak to fall for that Muggle…Tom bared his teeth in a derisive, ugly grimace.

When he had been small, Tom had once had a glass marble in the orphanage and Tom remembered how he had turned it over and over in the light, marvelling at the rainbow colours that appeared as the light broke in it, wondering why they were rainbows in the marble, wondering how on Earth a rainbow could fit into a small glass marble…Billy Stubbs had pushed him and the glass marble had broken. Tom acutely remembered the sense of loss he had felt afterwards.

Well, he thought, shaken up from the dream he'd had, he wasn't going to lose Minerva. She would never die. She'd by his side forever. She was a very valuable asset, was what his logic said, yet a little corner of his mind admitted defeat that night if never out loud.

Minerva McGonagall was in fact truly the only person Tom Marvolo Riddle had ever encountered whose value he could not measure for she was everything but a mere asset.

"Everything," Tom muttered the word quietly, "forever." From the portrait opposite of the bed the Lady with the sorrowful eyes watched, frozen and sad.

* * *

**Scotland, August 25th, 1942**

Tom and Minerva, with Andrew's permission, travelled to Scotland to first meet Abby in her small cottage before going to Michael's funeral.

Tom headed off, telling Minerva that he was going to catch some fresh air. She didn't mind for she suspected that out of distaste for Abby and consideration for Minerva, he was going to give them some space to talk.

Abby was surprisingly calm, as she explained the situation to Minerva, standing with an apron behind her immaculately-cleaned hearth. "They already burned his body. Precautionary measures, they said. They don't want illnesses and the likes 'round here. We're lucky we get a body back is what they said."

Minerva was unsure how to deal with this situation. She had mentally prepared herself for a distraught or even devastated Abby. This, she just didn't understand.

Abby meanwhile had gone to fetch her son, little Duncan, from his crib and smiled down at him with all the pride that only a mother could have while he slept with his small pink face crunched up in an adorable way. She had named him Duncan after her father, was what she had explained to Minerva and even in the strange mood Abby's behaviour had put her in Minerva couldn't help but smile as the wee lad reached up to scratch his nose with his miniscule hand before yawning and sleeping on. Then he gave a tiny sneeze and scrunched his nose up in displeasure.

Abby softly smoothed her son's fluffy hair down and smiled sadly. "He is perfect, isn't he? If only Michael could see him now." Pensively, she added: "It's like a circle of life and death. There can't be one without the other…I know it's not easy but I've learned to live with it. Michael is dead and there is no force in the world that can bring him back to us."

Minerva stared at Abby and wondered whether she was insane. One couldn't be that calm about losing one's brother. She imagined losing Andrew and shuddered. It was unnatural.

Seeing Minerva's openly sceptical expression, Abby sighed and sat down next to her at the kitchen table. "Maybe it is not only I who has changed," she said softly and perceptively.

Minerva stared at her and then at the tabletop, realising that Abby must be right for she thought desperately of something to say but found that there were no words she could say to Abigail Mackenzie. One could hear birdsong from the stormy outside, while an uncomfortable quiet hung over the two women in the little kitchen. In that moment Minerva understood that some things changed so irrevocably that there was simply no going back.

Michael's funeral later that afternoon was a very sombre affair. Icy winds blew on that day and the people had bundled up in thick headscarves and coats. Some older women, including Mrs Goodie from the village, were crying.

But Minerva wasn't looking at them for she had only eyes for Tom.

Tom couldn't help it, could he? His expression could not exactly be called cheerful, but it was entirely too sardonic for something as solemn as a funeral. Some older Ladies, wearing black bonnets, clucked disapprovingly when the casket was lowered into the ground and Tom's expression became, if possible, even more sardonic.

The worst in Minerva's eyes was Abby though. She looked on with such a blank expression that her disgust of Tom was practically palpable and Minerva could guess her thoughts: how could that arrogant, good-for-nothing Londoner ridicule her sorrow at her beloved older brother's death? Minerva could feel how her last, tenuous bond with Abby was severed in that moment.

She kept poking Tom – inconspicuously as she hoped – but he wouldn't even react. So Minerva waited in silent agitation until the service was over and she could finally speak her mind.

* * *

With an unrelenting grip she grabbed Tom's arm and pulled him after her. In front of the cold iron gates of the cemetery she stopped.

"How in Merlin's name could you behave in such a despicable manner? How-how dare you!"

Tom was entirely calm and unfazed. "Your beloved Michael is not the first to die in this war and I doubt he'll be the last," he pointed out dryly. Minerva gaped at that.

"Show some compassion, Tom!"

Tom laughed derisively. "Compassion, Thomas Hobbes defined, is more or less an act of embarrassment; not out of true goodness of the heart, but it serves only egoistical purposes, so that the one helping might feel better about himself. I whole-heartedly agree with that opinion and I do not need compassion to make me feel better about myself. Compassion is for the rich and the weak. You can't earn a living with compassion."

Angered, Minerva lashed out at him. "You can be such a heartless bastard, Tom!" she cried in agitation, her Scottish accent becoming stronger, stringing her words together. "And stop being so bloody smug about things! If we are already on the topic, you can explain some things to me. Let's talk about Rubeus Hagrid, for instance. What in the name of Merlin did you do to him?"

Tom raised a curious, questioning eyebrow in face of her fury.

"Mister Hagrid and I have had a series of slight disagreements, but we have settled them."

"And I don't suppose you are about to tell me what those disagreements were about, Tom?" Minerva snapped.

Tom stared at her levelly, unblinkingly, emotionlessly, his eyes dark and shrewd. She hated when he was like that.

"Well then, what about that display of wandless magic back when Grindelwald's minions tried to get to us? Even Professor Dumbledore would have been impressed by it."

At that, Tom raised his head, his eyes glittering rather aggressively. "Why are you asking this? Is it because your precious Dumbledore and I might be up to par one day? Would you rather like to see me defer to him like everyone else does?"

He was jealous now, Minerva could tell, jealous, hurt and angry. She hadn't meant for him to come to this conclusion. Maybe mentioning Dumbledore had been a bad idea, knowing how he loathed the man.

Minerva sighed and turned to go, because she knew that there was no chance Tom would tell her more and she sick of arguing with him. After only two steps, Tom spoke, his voice unusually gentle.

"Wait, Minerva."

Strong arms encircled her from behind. "I shall settle things with Hagrid affably. As for this Michael's death, well- deaths in this war are meaning- and senseless. The only thing that worries me is its impact on you, Minerva."

Minerva stared at the sombre grey stone church that towered over the land in the distance and she thought of Michael, sweet, gentle, debonair Michael who had not deserve to die.

"Do you believe in God, Tom?"

"No."

It had been said quickly, almost carelessly.

"But," Tom murmured and dropped a kiss on her head, "I believe in you, Minerva. In us. In forever."

As he held her, Minerva wondered just how many of his words were the truth and how many mere manipulations. The thought that none of them were true made her physically shudder.

In response, probably thinking she was cold, Tom's arms tightened around her.

_As if never wants to let me go_, Minerva thought, and the thought made her shiver even more.

The line between love and obsession was blurring more and more.

* * *

_tbc...please tell me your thoughts :)_


	20. 1942 Part IV

_Hi everyone! This is probably going to be the last update for a few weeks, since university is starting tomorrow and I have lots of new duties this semester. But I will try to finish the next chapter as soon as I can! We're heading for rather dark updates now.  
_

_Thank you for your marvellous reviews, **B-lieve-in-YOU-rself, Megii, Mara, LordT** (Your interpretation of Tom's obsessiveness was very interesting to read! Glad you like the story)**, Kate, ****SherbetKitty **and **Azrael! **I hope you like this chapter also :) I am not sure if I do...but oh well.  
_

_Sachita :-)_

_P.S.: The joke mentioned in this chapter is an old one and not one that I invented :P But I quite like it. I can imagine they already told it in the 1940s. _

* * *

**Chapter Nineteen  
**

**Hogwarts, September 1942**

"Miss McGonagall," Headmaster Dippet greeted as soon as she arrived in the Great Hall on her first day of her seventh year at Hogwarts, "please follow me."

His gravelly voice echoed oddly along the hallways as he strode ahead through the winding corridors of the Great School. "The first years will take a few moments more and I am sure you are most anxious to meet your fellow Head."

Minerva walked behind him and mentally checked the list of possible candidates in her year. Gryffindor sure wasn't going to get a Head Boy this year- James Taylor, the gossip, was too cheeky for his own good; Andrew McFadden too loud and lacking tact; Gordon McDonalds was lacking authority and Justin Miller, to say it plainly, was just too quick to pick fights and entirely too aggressive for his own good.

So that left the other Houses. Minerva doubted it would be Slytherin, the Headmaster didn't approve of two Head Boys from the same House in two years' succession and it was as good as certain that Tom would be Head Boy next year.

So maybe Hufflepuff- a thin smile crossed Minerva's lips as she thought of the former Head Girl, Annegrit Seesters.

No….the Hufflepuff boys this year neither wanted this badge nor would they be happy with it. The problem with Hufflepuff House was their bloody loyalty to one another. The Hufflepuffs in Minerva's year would surely feel guilty if one of them got the badge and the other didn't. Loyalty was for sure an admirable trait, yes, but for positions of authority who also had to show said authority in front of their own House it was most unfavourable.

That left Ravenclaw. With a sinking feeling, Minerva thought of the candidate, who was the most likely to be chosen.

The gargoyle swung aside and Headmaster Dippet led the way to his office, chatting amiably all the while. Up up the long spiral stone staircase they went, Minerva feeling sicker all the while.

The Head Boy was already there, waiting for them, head full of wavy brown locks turned away from them, hands clasped behind his back in an orderly manner.

Minerva's face fell.

As they entered he turned around, green eyes intelligent and filled with a new, determined light.

Jonathan Davies.

"Headmaster Dippet," he intoned respectfully, and then, with a nod just visible enough to be barely polite, coldly: "Miss McGonagall."

"Mister Davies," Minerva replied and try as she might, guilt seeped into her voice.

Professor Dippet didn't seem to notice anything amiss about his two star pupils and he just started talking about their duties.

They made it through the rest of the meeting without saying a word to each other. Dippet still didn't pick up on the tense atmosphere.

"So," the Headmaster eventually said pleasantly, "I see that you will make a fine pair of Heads. Off to the Great Hall you go where you'll be introduced to the rest of the students. Also, you will deliver a speech to them as I told you already. Where was I? Ah, yes, off you go, and I hope for a pleasant year."

Jonathan Davies stayed silent right until they were outside Headmaster Dippet's office. Then, he whirled around and grabbed Minerva's wrist painfully.

Alerted and appalled, Minerva fought his grip, yelling at him to let her go, but Jonathan Davies spent his free time acting as the Captain and Beater of Ravenclaw's Quidditch team- and as such his grip was like an iron clamp on her wrist, impossible to get rid of.

"Don't even think about it, McGonagall," he warned and pulled her into an empty classroom.

Stuffed animals stared down at them unsettlingly with their unblinking eyes from shelves all over the classroom. It was one of Professor Kettleburn's classrooms; he had always been fascinated by the Muggle way of preserving pets and other animals. Minerva found it rather repulsing. Now, in the early twilight of evening, the animals looked as if they were still alive. She shuddered.

Jonathan stepped right in front of her, releasing her wrist and tilting her chin up.

"Listen McGonagall," he stated firmly, "I don't like treating you like this, but I can see that you probably wouldn't listen to me if I employed normal methods. This is important to me so I need you to listen."

Minerva stayed silent; her hands clenched at her side. She was one inch away from withdrawing her wand.

Jonathan took a good look at her and then laughed sadly, recoiling, dragging a hand through his brown hair.

"Look at you," he said calmly, "an inch away from hexing me into oblivion only because I want to give you a piece of advice. Have you truly become so blind? And here I've always thought you would make a formidable Ravenclaw."

"You were the one who dragged me into an empty classroom by force," Minerva pointed out, attempting to apply a dose of Tom-like cool, but she was seething as her temper reared up at Jonathan's audacity and his rude comments.

"And I will apologise for that in just a minute," Jonathan replied, completely unfazed. "But first I want to tell you something. Maybe it's out of some misguided sense of attraction to you, McGonagall, maybe it's out of a sense of duty to a peer. I don't really know. What I do know, however, is what happened to me one and a half years ago. I am sure you can recall the _incident_."

Minerva could recall the _incident_ fairly well and also the fact, that she hadn't exchanged a word with Tom for a few months after it.

In stony silence, she listened how Jonathan told her of being threatened with his life if he told anyone of the _incident_ -"and as a Ravenclaw you know when it is prudent to be compliant"- of being brutally beaten and then of being hit with a spell that had made him forget who he was for a long time and just remember the pain.

Minerva pressed her lips together and attempted to hide the tremor in her voice as she asked: "Who?"

There was clear pity on his face then, which Minerva did not care for. She was no one to be pitied.

"Yes, he was there," Jonathan confirmed with a face that said he was sorry for his next words, "but he just stood by, watching, while his minions tortured me. I honestly don't know what was worse."

Minerva bit her lip so hard that she could taste blood. "Why didn't they use an _Obliviate _then?" she challenged eventually, rather desperately clinging to the fragile hope that this was all some plot by Jonathan and that Tom had told the truth when he'd said that he didn't know who had attacked Jonathan...but part of her knew, with sickening clarity even, that Jonathan was telling the truth.

"They knew I wasn't going to blab," he replied darkly, "not if I valued my life. And I did believe them to be capable of even that...I am not a Gryffindor."

He looked at her intently.

"But you are, are you not? You would do well in remembering that."

He brought his mouth close to her ear then, his warm breath hitting the side of her neck, and whispered: "I truly am sorry, Minerva."

She looked at Jonathan then and neither did words come to her, nor could she hide the tears that welled up in her eyes. Jonathan looked pitying again. He took her elbow and steered her out of the room.

In that moment, life returned to Minerva. "I neither need nor asked for your pity," she told him, eyes flashing a warning, removing her elbow from his grasp.

Jonathan stopped, giving her a stony, grim look. "If that is what you want. I trust we will nonetheless be able to work on our Head duties in a conscientious manner?"

"Of course," Minerva replied coldly.

"Well then, let's proceed to the Great Hall. Headmaster Dippet is undoubtedly looking forward to introducing us to the students."

Minerva followed him as he strode ahead and it was clear that he was upset, judging from his long strides and his tense expression. She herself wasn't faring that much better for she felt as if she had lost something very important- his respect.

Worse still, she wasn't sure whether he was right in that decision.

"Your choice," Jonathan breathed quietly into her ear as he opened the door to the Great Hall for her. Minerva ignored him and stepped inside the warm candle shine, past the anticipatory faces and on to the podium next to Headmaster Dippet, who was giving them a toothy smile.

Professor Dippet's speech rushed past Minerva like the water in a river.

Her look was fixed on Tom, who was sitting at the Slytherin table and slowly smirking up to her, but when Minerva's cold look stayed, the smirk slid slowly off his face and was replaced by a questioning look. He narrowed his eyes at her. Minerva shook her head slightly and ignored him.

When it was her turn to speak, Minerva carefully avoided looking in the direction from where she knew Tom was watching avidly, giving her one of his piercing glares as she could see from the corners of her eyes. Instead, she concentrated on the sea of faces before her. She had never actually been bad at public speeches; it wasn't as if she was lacking self-confidence, but it occurred to her quite heavily in that moment that she embodied the image of the school in that moment.

Her gaze slid past Jonathan's cold face to gaze at Professor Dumbledore, who was giving her an encouraging nod. Minerva took a deep breath. Right. She could do this.

"Welcome," she said slowly, "To Hogwarts. As my fellow Head already mentioned, it is our duty to act as an intermediary between students and staff. If you got any questions, you can come to us and we will try our best to answer them for you. Hogwarts stands for equal chances, respect and fairness, no matter what House you are in."

Tom caught her look then and Minerva forced herself to avert her eyes quickly.

"I trust you will uphold the spirit of Hogwarts in that manner," she continued, "so that you will develop into conscientious and respectful witches and wizards. Allow Hogwarts to become a home to you and it will be repaid to you in multiple ways. We are there to guide you on this way. But then," and she allowed herself a brief smile, "I don't want to bore you all, as I am sure you are hungry. I heard there's going to be chocolate pudding."

Chuckles and anticipatory smiles accompanied that last part of her speech before the Great Hall erupted into applause. Minerva's ears were ringing and her hands were shaking.

Tom's eyes, when she met them again, were like ice.

* * *

Tom caught up to her even before she could flee to the sanctuary of her Head Girl chambers that evening.

"What was that about?" he asked coldly, staring her down from his superior height, the torches on the wall casting odd shadows on his face and illuminating the silver stripes in his tie in an unsettling manner.

"What?" Minerva tried feebly.

"I suppose you've been conversing with Jonathan," Tom told her tersely, "and he's been telling you about the oh-so-bad Slytherins."

"Not at all," she lied. Tom merely chuckled sardonically, clucking his tongue as if reminding her that he was most skilled at telling lies himself.

However, to her surprise, he suddenly changed topics, sighing heavily. "I am sorry, Minerva. That was not right of me. I do love you, you know…" He pressed a short, yet burning kiss to her lips. "Good-night for now," he mumbled into her hair and, drawing her into a loose embrace, left towards Slytherin Common Room without looking back.

Minerva stared after him, feeling distinctly nauseated, not like she had imagined feeling on her first day at Hogwarts.

On the last days at Andrew's flat in Oxford, Tom had become increasingly edgy, nervous and anticipatory even- as if he was waiting for something to happen. His tense mood had infected Minerva and she found that she could not get rid of it as she watched his tall figure disappear in the gaggle of students and finally round a corner.

As she set off towards her own Common Room, walking down the long, torch-lit corridors, Poppy caught up to her. "Poppy," Minerva smiled, glad to see her friend. They hadn't had a chance to exchange news yet, for Minerva's new Head duties had kept her busy, and the letters during the summer were just not the same.

"Minerva, "Poppy greeted her with an answering smile. Her russet-coloured hair was up in a complicated bun roll at the right side of her head. She looked pretty on that day, but something seemed to be wrong, because her smile lacked cheer.

"How are you?" Minerva asked, distractedly, pushing an errant strand of black hair behind her ear. Standing in front of the Head Common Room entrance was Jonathan Davies and he didn't look happy to see her either. She stopped dead.

"Oh, well, I could be better," Poppy mumbled. "William and I've been having disagreements. Merlin, his world views regarding the role of women are positively medieval…"

"Tell me again tomorrow, Poppy," Minerva said in that moment because Jonathan had turned to talk to another Ravenclaw student and she saw her chance to slip past him without having to talk to him that evening. Throwing a distracted "Night" Poppy's way, she set off towards her bed, stopping shortly to gaze at Poppy standing alone in the corridor. Poppy was gazing at her, not saying a word, her arms wrapped around her thin torso as if she was cold.

Minerva averted her gaze and crossed the Head Common Room quickly, before walking up the right spiral staircase that Professor Dippet had told her led to her rooms. She stopped at the door-frame to take in the sight, forgetting her troubles for a moment.

The rooms were beautiful.

Minerva's Head Girl rooms were quite spacious and comfortable. There was a bathroom and a bed-chamber with white-washed walls that was equipped with a king-sized bed with comfortable-looking red-and-golden covers.

A door in a corner of the bed-chamber led to another, circular-shaped room. It held a desk made of dark oak, a beautiful cupboard with intricate wood carvings and a large window which overlooked the lake and gave her a magnificent view of the last blue and violet hues of the dying day, while the stars glimmered palely above, only second to the iridescent light of the moon. Minerva didn't take much enjoyment out of the scenery that day though. Instead, she felt more alone than ever.

Lying in her scarlet-and-golden bed that night, Minerva remembered the lost look in her friend's eyes and felt horrible. But she had always listened to Poppy's troubles before, so one time of not listening was surely not that horrific, was it? Tom's pale face flashed past her eye as she lay there as well and she hid her head in her pillow, trying to fight the bad feeling that was arising in her again. Her eyes burned. No, that was not how she had imagined her first day being Head Girl. Not at all.

* * *

The conversation she had been vowing to have with Tom regarding his secrecy turned out to be impossible for he seemed to be avoiding her at all costs.

Whenever she tried to catch him alone, some of his followers hung around and Minerva left without having said whatever she wanted to say. When she talked to him about that, Tom told her something about being busy, but when Minerva wondered aloud whether he had lost interest in being alone with her, Tom gave her a surprised look: "Not at all," he said, "but I am awfully busy. There is that Potions Project for Professor Slughorn I need to work on…"

Minerva didn't believe him, but her own role as a Head Girl asked for a lot of dedication and so she often found herself to be lacking the time to be worrying about anything. Poppy was oddly reserved around her and Minerva wondered about that, too, but as bad as she felt about it- one some days she was just too exhausted to do anything about it.

Weeks passed in that manner.

For once she also didn't want to go to Professor Dumbledore for their usual meetings over tea. The one time she'd spoken with him in the new year he'd mentioned Tom in a simple conversation in such a warning tone that it made her think that Tom was right about him.

Professor Dumbledore really did hate him, didn't he? And Tom had never given him reason for that.

"Sorry, Professor," she therefore told him decidedly, when he asked her to come join him for a cup of tea, "being a Head Girl keeps me quite busy and I regret that I cannot accept your invitation right now. I've got lots of chores at the moment. But maybe some other time, if that is alright for you, Professor?"

Professor Dumbledore regarded her sadly and his blue eyes seemed to have lost their usual twinkle. "Of course, Minerva," was all he said and Minerva fought her guilty conscience as she walked away from him that day.

Jonathan refused to spend more time alone with her than what was absolutely necessary and so she found herself taking on more duties that they could have normally shared, leaving her absolutely exhausted at the end of the day.

* * *

**Hogwarts, October 10th, 1942**

Minerva was doing rounds with James Taylor. It was late and her mood was horrid. James, who in spite of all his joking nature, could actually be quite sensitive, tried to cheer her up.

"You know the one about the man and the flat-iron?" he asked her, and not giving her a chance to reply, continued, eyes sparkling: "There is that man, who comes to the doctor with both his ears burnt. The doctor asked how he managed to do that. `Well´, said the man, `I was ironing and my telephone was ringing. Sadly, I confused the iron with my telephone.´ `Alright, and why are both your ears burnt then?´ inquired the doctor. The man gave him a flat look. `Well,´ said he, `I had to call emergency services, too, no?´"

James laughed himself silly, but Minerva didn't understand the joke. "What is an iron?" she asked, "and what is a telephone?"

James tried to explain, awkwardly, but only succeeded in convincing Minerva that the Muggles seemed to be awfully backward sometimes. Ironing with live coal seemed to be very medieval. With a start, she wondered if Abby was doing it, too. She could see the necessity of telephones, though.

"You know the best about the joke?" James chuckled on, his light blue eyes mischievous. "It's about a man! I mean, which self-respecting man does the laundry? I-"

Minerva stopped him with a hand on his arm. "Shh," she said quietly. There was something odd ahead- like a puddle of iridescent blue water.

"Oh, that's nothing," James said with a smile and a dismissive hand wave, "those must be the remnants from an accident that happened in Sluggy's Potion Class today. It's not dangerous; guess Slughorn was too lazy to clean it up until now. Odd, you weren't even around, but there seems to be someone with your talent at Potions a few years below us…"

"No," Minerva hissed. "Quiet." He complied, sending her a surprised look, but Minerva had no time for that now. There was a sound, like someone speaking, but it sounded more like a hiss?

Without saying anything to James, Minerva gathered her wand- and her courage- and jumped around the corner, the wand raised. "Show yourself!"

But there was no-one in the corridor. Only the torches flickered, as if a gust of wind had hit them from somewhere.

"Minerva…"James's voice said behind her in dread. He sounded choked-up.

She ascertained that there was truly no-one there, then turned to him questioningly. James stared unmovingly at something—or someone?- lying in front of him on the ground.

Her heart in her throat, Minerva joined him and when she saw what he was looking at she was too frozen even to let out a scream.

Justin Miller, the Gryffindor who liked to be spiteful to Minerva regarding her connection to Tom, was lying in a puddle of the translucent blue liquid still streaming out from underneath the door to the Potions lab.

His brown eyes were wide open and staring unseeingly as if in deadly fright.

His entire black uniform was bathed in the garish blue colour and his red hair was soaked through with blue as well, floating around his head. The red curls seemed alive, being reflected in the blue liquid in a horrid imitation of themselves.

Justin's face was worst to look at though. He looked as if he was about to scream but had never quite got the chance to do so.

"Is he- is he?" James stuttered. "I mean- is he-"

Minerva suppressed the scream that was rising in her throat. Trembling, she bent down to take Justin's hand that was raised as if an accusing manner. There was a faint, thready pulse.

"Justin?" Minerva whispered in horror.

There was no response.

"I'll get a teacher," James mumbled in terror and took off at running speed, seeming to be glad to be able to escape the place. Minerva, still kneeling next to Justin in the translucent blue liquid, shook her head frantically: "No, wait-"

But he was already gone, leaving her alone in the corridor with the flickering torches and Justin's still body next to her. Minerva held the cold hand in hers tighter. A sudden gust of air made the hair on her back stand on end, but when she looked over her shoulder, the corridor was still empty.

For a moment she fancied hearing a whisper of a cold voice though: _"Don't be afraid…"_

Minerva let out a scream then and immediately, the flickering of the torches ceased.

Finally, there were voices. "Miss McGonagall!" Headmaster Dippet's gravelly voice echoed off the walls and Minerva looked up at him, pale and trembling, her eyes unnaturally wide in her face.

"There was a voice," she said urgently, "a whisper…"

Professor Dumbledore frowned at her, while Madam Yuhe immediately bent down over Justin. "He is alive," she announced, "but seems to be paralysed…well, _petrified_ more. I have never seen something like this before."

Minerva finally got up from her place on the ground, still trembling, her robes soaked in blue.

"Who could have done this?" Headmaster Dippet asked no-one in particular, his wizened face set in a look of shock. He was steadying himself on the wall.

"Whoever it was," Professor Dumbledore said firmly and for some odd reason stared at Minerva with a penetrating gaze, who shivered under his cold look, "we will find the culprit and we will make sure that he never does something like this again."

* * *

**Hogwarts, October 1942**

The school year was like a nightmare from then on. Students were scared of their own shadows and could only ever be seen walking around in groups, anxiously peering around the next corner, even if in the weeks following the attack on Justin no other attacks had happened. But of course James had seen to it that everyone knew about the attack by the next day, no matter how hard the teachers had tried to keep things quiet.

Madam Yuhe had no update on Justin's condition and the Professors hadn't found a culprit either. When Minerva had been to visit him, Justin's unseeing eyes had continued to stare into nothingness or at something only he could see. Minerva hadn't been able to stand that empty gaze for long.

Younger students flocked to Minerva like a herd of frightened sheep. She lost count of the hugs she'd given, the tears she had brushed from faces, the reassurances she didn't believe in herself she'd given out…

Tom seemed even more eager to avoid her, however. Minerva detested him for that, seeing that she would have needed his support so badly these days.

An odd, ferocious and tense mood hung over the castle.

Old fights seemed to have been forgotten, but when new ones flared up, they seemed to adapt to the tense mood hanging over the entire castle, becoming violent and vicious. More than once, Minerva had to escort children with bloodied noses and black eyes to the hospital wing and the points of each House only ever fell in that time.

It all reached its boiling point when Poppy brought a crying girl to her, a first-year Hufflepuff with a long brown ponytail and wide eyes. The chubby cheeks of the girl were infused with red and she seemed completely unravelled.

Poppy looked bad, too, Minerva thought distantly, but brushed the thought off, her mind back on Tom as she saw him pass in a distant corridor amidst a herd of Slytherins.

_Why_ was he avoiding her when she needed his support the most?

The girl who was with Poppy was sobbing in fright, her large brown eyes unnaturally wide and she was clinging to Poppy's arm.

"A group of Slytherins frightened her," Poppy said wearily to Minerva's unspoken query. "It is honestly as if the whole castle's going mad. There is anger everywhere."

"Which Slytherins?" Minerva inquired, going over the latest troublemakers from Slytherin she'd had to deal with in the last days.

"Antonin Dolohov and Tom's _minions,_" her friend replied and Minerva knew that she did not imagine the acid in Poppy's tone. Defensively, she stiffened. "Are you sure?"

"I am sure," the young girl piped up. "It was Antonin Dolohov, my older brother hates him. He said to steer clear of him at all costs."

"Who is your older brother?"

The girl sniffed. "Richard Sprout. My name is Pomona Sprout."

Minerva forced a smile for the girl's benefit. "Hello Pomona, my name is Minerva."

The girl nodded, her brown eyes widening even more. "I know, you were introduced at the welcoming feast. It's nice to meet you."

"It's nice to meet you also," Minerva replied earnestly, shaking Pomona's hand. "Now I will see to it that those Slytherins are dealt with. I promise they are not going to frighten you again."

Pomona gave her a watery smile and a shaky "Thank you", before heading off to her next class. Minerva allowed herself to sink back against the wall, her head spinning. She put a hand on her forehead, feeling sick and feverish.

Poppy suddenly rounded on her when she opened her eyes again. She looked hurt and furious.

"So that is it?" she snapped acerbically. "You will punish your lovely Tom, won't you? Or will you simply allow him to go off unscathed? Surely, even in your lovestruck-ness you can see that he is behind this."

"What's got into you, Poppy?" Minerva asked in wonder. "That is most unlike you."

A tear made its way down Poppy's face and she wiped it away defiantly. "Nothing," she spat. "Nothing for you to be concerned about anyway. I wanted to tell you before, but you didn't even _listen_ to me, too concerned with your precious Tom. William and I've been having trouble. Add to that, my father is pressuring me to marry soon. He says he doesn't want me to work. A woman doesn't work, he says. But you haven't been listening at all!"

The last part had been a furious scream and more than a few students stayed to stare at the two of them fighting in the corridors. Minerva shot them an angry glare and they got the hint, moving on.

"I am sorry, Poppy," Minerva said slightly defensively, holding her hands up in a placating gesture. "But there's been all this trouble-"

Poppy, her lips compressed to a thin line, said tightly: "No. Even now, you are trying to relativise your actions, Minerva. You apologise but say at the same time that it was not your fault. That's not like you. You have changed so much. He has changed you. Why can't you see that?"

When Minerva tried to say something, Poppy shook her head. "I don't want to hear it. Come back when you are feeling more like yourself."

With that, she went up on the staircase leading to Gryffindor Common Room, leaving Minerva to stare after her in disquiet. But she hadn't done anything wrong, had she? The attack on Justin was robbing her of all strength and of her good judgement. Sleep deprivation made her feel as if she were slowly going mad. But she hadn't done anything wrong… or had she?

* * *

**Hogwarts, October 24th, 1942**

The confrontation with Tom finally happened on a clear autumn day. To Minerva's surprise, it was Tom, who approached her when she sat outside on the meadow overlooking the lake, trying to get a tenuous grip on her failing sense of sanity.

"I thought I'd find you here," he said without preamble, sitting down next to her and folding his long legs gracefully.

Minerva watched over the lake and said nothing, hugging her red coat tighter around herself. Her tights-clad legs were freezing underneath her gymslip in the cold autumn wind.

"God, you are just too self-righteous for your own good sometimes, Minerva!" Tom burst out suddenly.

"I am too self-righteous?" That got to her finally. "Me? _You_ ignored me when I needed you most the last months!"

Back to his calm ways, Tom waved a nonchalant long-fingered hand. "The attack on Justin? Well, why are you sad about that? I remember how he treated you all those years. Besides," he sneered, "he is a Muggle-born who tries very hard to fit in Wizard Society, even calling Muggles below him. That says a few things about him."

"Tom!" Minerva cried in shock, that he still held onto his derision for Muggles so firmly. "That doesn't make him a bad person. He's not alone with that attitude regarding Muggles."

Tom merely narrowed his midnight eyes at her and ignored her last sentence completely. "You knew I was busy the last months," he accused, "and you could have respected that instead of being so self-righteous now."

"If it wasn't for all your secrecy, I might have," Minerva gave back. Black dots were dancing in front of her eyes and she felt too warm out of the sudden, gasping for air. This was all-too- too much! "You know," she spat, "your being busy does coincide wonderfully with this attack."

Tom paled next to her. Looking over to him, Minerva saw that his fists were clenched and his blue eyes were burning with wild flames of anger. "I thought you trusted me," he whispered scathingly. "Oh, but of course, a set of unorthodox opinions and just like that I am evil in your eyes. How you tend to see the world in Gryffindor black and white sometimes, Minerva! Well, guess what, it's not like that."

He had got to his feet and Minerva followed his example. They were close enough to touch, close enough to kiss, and for a moment they were both drawn to each other. The air between them felt like searing heat. Tom's lips came closer to hers, closer and ever closer, until they stopped just an inch in front of hers.

A sense of burning, wild anger came over Minerva in that moment.

"Why are you so wrong, Tom? So bitter? So full of hatred? What did they do to you at the Orphanage? Beat you so badly that you now feel as if you have to pass the feeling of helplessness you did feel then on to everyone else now?" she challenged. The instant the words left her mouth she felt horrible. "I am sorry," she mumbled, but it was too late.

"Why do you instantly assume I know anything about the attack? I truly thought you trusted me." He stepped even closer until they were nearly nose to nose, eyes cold and cruel. "And yes, they beat me at the orphanage. To an inch of my life, once, actually. Is that what you wanted to hear, Minerva?"

His hot breath hit her face, as he continued coldly.

"Do you want to know how I lay there, crying for them to stop, waiting for salvation that never came? How I stared at the ceiling of my room for entire nights, waiting for someone to take me away from there?" he inquired maliciously.

He stared at her for a few moments longer and then abruptly turned on the spot and walked back to the castle with long strides, robes billowing angrily behind him. Minerva put a hand in front of her mouth to stifle an upcoming sob.

"Tom," she whispered weakly. "Tom, I…"

* * *

**Library of Hogwarts, October 28th, 1942**

No matter where Minerva went the following week in the strained atmosphere hanging over the castle, Antonin Dolohov seemed to follow her. When he noisily plopped down opposite of her in the library one day, Minerva closed the book she had been reading with a _thud_ and glared at him.

Antonin responded to her look with a raised eyebrow and a charming grin. "Is something the matter?" he asked.

"No," Minerva retorted, "only that you seem to have developed a penchant for following me around at all costs while Tom is avoiding me like the plague. Did I sign up for the "Trade my Slytherin for another" competition?"

Antonin stared at her and another twisted smirk passed over his raven-like features before he bent over his book again. "Something like that," he stated nonchalantly.

"Well then I quit," Minerva announced and got up.

Antonin took a hold of her wide sleeve and forced her to sit back down. "I am Head Girl," she said dangerously, "if you don't let go of me at once the rest of Slytherin House will make you regret it due to the amount of points your House will lose."

His eyes took on a hard gleam. Minerva was used to Tom's twisted mind and darkness though and refused to be intimidated. After a moment, Antonin dropped his gaze and chuckled.

"Well," he said, "I should have known. You don't get to be his Lady friend without knowing the ways of our House." There was awe in his voice at the "his" and Minerva frowned at that.

"What is it about him?" she challenged, angrier than she could remember being for a long time. "What is it about him that makes you flock to him like a herd of sheep? Can't you think for yourselves?"

Antonin looked at her coldly. "I would consider my words more thoroughly if I were you, Minerva McGonagall," was all he said. "Tom is a visionary." His eyes glittered with something that was uncannily like adoration. "I believe in him. We all do. But we have had this conversation already, I believe."

Minerva tore her sleeve out of his grasp. "Well then," she said hotly, "there is nothing we can talk about anymore, is there?" She made to go. Antonin laughed softly.

"You believe you know everything, don't you?" he asked derisively. "You know _nothing_." Getting up, he approached her. The light of the candle standing on the table illuminated the hungry look on his face in an eerie way. "But I can say what He sees in you…"

His breath hit her face and Minerva recoiled. Antonin seemed to come to his senses, too, a shocked look on his face as if he had realised he was trespassing on holy ground. A very ugly feeling rose up in Minerva's mind in that moment and she didn't recognise herself. She knew she had the power to make Antonin fall from grace with Tom only by telling him of this very conversation. Antonin seemed to know it, too, judging by the look on his face.

Poppy's words came back to haunt Minerva in that moment and she could see again the reproachful face of her friend, saying how Minerva had changed. Shuddering, she averted her gaze from Antonin's eyes and made her way past the shelves, intent on getting out of the dusty, confining atmosphere of the old library. Madam Scrittura's strict gaze hit her as she walked past; no doubt she was angry about the raised voices in the solemn silence of the library. "Sorry, Ma'am," Minerva mumbled.

At the door, Antonin caught up to her. "He is not like you think he is," he said, his voice unusually soft.

"But he is no idealist either, Dolohov," Minerva countered, surprised at the amount of weariness that overwhelmed her in that moment." Shaking her head slowly, she continued: "Tom is the least idealistic person you'll ever meet. He only employs utilitarism. There is no place for dreamers at his side, Antonin."

Antonin held her gaze wordlessly for a few moments, his light eyes troubled. Then he smirked slightly, shook his head and held the door open for her, gesturing for her to go before him. In front of the huge oak doors, he remarked cynically: "Such words, coming from Tom's girlfriend."

"Love is unconditional," Minerva told him, but then her look fell on her wrist and as she remembered the unbreakable vow and her own bitter words to Tom. There was something acidic in her mouth and something heavy in her heart. Without bothering to tell him good-bye, she went on with quick strides towards Gryffindor Tower. There were a few people she had to apologise to.

* * *

Poppy accepted her apology with a dismissive nod and bloodshot eyes from having cried over the latest row with William half the evening.

"I know how love can make you blind, Minerva," she mumbled, absently dragging a finger through her tangled russet curls. She was pale and there were dark rings under her eyes.

Looking at her, Minerva had never felt guiltier. What kind of friend was she to leave Poppy out in the cold in times like these? A lump in her throat, she settled down next to Poppy on her friend's bed.

"I am so sorry," she said heavily past the lump that was threatening to choke her.

Poppy sent her a wan smile.

"Bloody men," she said with an oddly choked-up voice.

"Look what they made of us. Two blubbering idiotic girls sitting inside on a perfectly beautiful autumn day, when we could be outside, enjoying the sunshine and the autumn colours."

"I swore an unbreakable vow to love him forever," Minerva whispered tonelessly.

"You did what?" Poppy's tired face was scrunched up in horror. "Minerva, how could you?"

"I don't know," Minerva muttered blankly, staring at nothing in particular. "I truly don't know why."

She turned a white face to Poppy.

"But he is _my_ Tom, you know?" she said frantically, brokenly. "My Tom and he would never do wrong. Not my Tom. But then I know him and I had that horrible conversation with him a few days ago and with Antonin today and Tom has been so distant-" her voice broke and she had to cover her face with her hands.

"I don't even know myself anymore, Poppy. I can feel myself changing," she whispered desperately.

"This attack and Tom's silence and I feel like we're heading for a terrible ending and I can't- Poppy, I can't-" A great sob shuddered through Minerva's frame and she couldn't continue.

Poppy held her wordlessly as her friend sobbed desperately, shaking her head grimly.

Storms howled around the castle that night and not even the homely atmosphere of Hogwarts was enough to chase the cold away that night. All night, Minerva lay in her bed, staring with opened eyes into the darkness while the autumn winds tore at the castle, angry and vengeful, like a curse that was struggling to find its chosen recipient.

* * *

_tbc_


	21. 1942 Part V

_Hello everyone, I apologise for my long absence :) Unfortunately, this chapter is short, too...university keeps me on my toes._ _I also apologise that I haven't been able to reply to your wonderful reviews personally, I promise, I am going to do soon, but I didn't want to keep you waiting any longer and so here's the new update! Thank you for your marvellous reviews, __**Mara, B-lieve-in-YOU-rself, Emily, Megii, Sarafina, SherbetKitty, Anne **__and __**iviscrit! **__They are always much much appreciated and make the dreary November weather outside a bit easier to bear :)_

_**Important note: **_

_I have two other things to say in this chapter-_

_**One**__- if you've got the time, please go to __**Reiko Anne Nguyen**__'s profile here on ff and check out the fanart she made for this story. It's amazing, it truly is, and I can't find words to express my gratitude! Thank you so much :)! _

_**Two**__- I am sure that you are all quite fond of reading about Tom and Minerva- otherwise you wouldn't be here, I guess :) - and I can truly recommend the works of __**iviscrit**__ to you! They are truly marvellously-written with an attention to detail that I could never hope to possess, so please read her work! It's truly wonderful!_

_But enough from me :) Please do tell me what you think of this chapter. __The next one will be longer, I promise!_

_Sachita :-)_

* * *

**Chapter Twenty**

**Hogwarts, November, 1942**

The days following her confrontation with Antonin Dolohov, he came to breakfast with his eyes averted, looking pale and drawn and much like a kicked dog.

There was a satisfied smile dancing on Tom's thin lips though and Minerva gazed at him in horror. Tom refused to look at her though, and with a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach, she dropped her look to her porridge.

A few days later, the owl with the letter arrived. The sky was a milky blue on the day when Minerva got said letter from Andrew.

Small clouds clung like whispers to the edges of the world and a flight of birds took wing as she walked on towards the lake. At the edge of the water she stopped and watched the blurred reflection of coloured autumn trees in the water- a vibrant yellow, a scarlet red- just until the wind came and moved the waves so they were just one mixture of vibrant hues and shadows.

"Dear Minerva," the letter said in Andrew's refined handwriting,

"I am writing to you from a frenzied Bombay, caught up in India's struggles for a free Nation. The monsoon season has ended, yet I feel as if some of the humid wetness has stayed, seeping through the façade of deceit that is so strong here these days, thinly veiling long-boiling feelings of suppression and humiliation. People in the Indian Ministry of Magic strive to assure us of our safety, yet there is unrest on the streets and Inéz doesn't feel secure at all. I must say, I don't feel very safe either. Hopefully we will be able to depart for British shores soon.

Another reason compels me to write to you, Minerva- a letter from Mother has arrived, telling me that Father has fallen ill. I trust you will go home for the Christmas Holidays. Please inform me more thoroughly of his condition.

With love,

Your brother,

Andrew."

Minerva dropped the letter and frowned. Mother had apparently not felt the need to inform her daughter of her father's illness so far. Concern gripped her and she went to find Caelus in order to write to her mother herself. The letter was soon written and Minerva followed Caelus's flight with her eyes until he had disappeared on the horizon. A sharp gust of air made her shiver and she wrapped her arms tighter around herself.

Two days passed in dullness- the terror that had hung over the castle had abated somewhat seeing that there had been no further attacks, yet Tom refused to even look at her. That November, they read of continued Grindelwald attacks in Central Europe and of Germany's invasion of Vichy France, thus violating the armistice with them made two years prior. Several French-born students paled upon hearing the news.

As the darkness grew, Minerva stuck to Poppy. She lay awake at night, worried sick about her father and also about Tom if she was honest with herself.

On the morning of the third day after Andrew's letter had arrived, Caelus came back with a parchment bearing the insignias of the McGonagall family crest. Minerva, with a glance at Poppy, who looked concerned, got up after dinner to read the letter without being disturbed by her housemates. She shivered as she reached the outside.

The sun had long since disappeared to make way for the encroaching dawn and blankets of fog crawled along the Grounds. The vivid autumn colours of the trees had long lost their lustre and they seemed insipid, even frightening, for the red hues of their leaves looked uncannily like dried blood.

"Lumos," Minerva whispered and sat down in the deserted stands of the Quidditch Pitch, leaning forward to read the letter in the light of her wand.

"Minerva," it said, coldness conveyed even through the manner of address,

"Your father is very ill. We've consulted with St. Mungos. The doctors don't give him long if they don't find a cure soon. Come home over the winter holidays.

Sincerely,

Mother."

Minerva could feel herself shaking for long minutes, but she couldn't cry.

As she looked up after what might have been minutes or also hours, the sky was changing before her eyes. Cloud masses, dark and threatening, curled upon one another, threw out tendrils of greyness and concentrated to other, equally as menacing shapes. A bolt of lightning tore out of the furious spectacle sometime and raced to the ground in a twisted imitation of a forked path. Roiling thunder shuddered through her as it began to rain.

Later she couldn't have said how she came to sit on the floor of the Astronomy Tower that night, but she felt her face with shaking hands sometime and her fingers came away wet and glistening in the pale moonlight that stared into the Tower like a blind man's eye.

Then, the tears came, and they didn't stop for a long time. She was bent over with the force of her own sobs, desperately croaking: "Why? Why? Why?"

The full force of her mother's words hit her again and she dissolved into another bout of sobbing,

"Don't cry," a quiet voice told her and a pale hand held out a handkerchief to her. Tom.

Minerva's sobs dissolved into tortured hiccoughs as she slowly looked up at him, standing there, illuminated in the moonlight that fell into the Tower in pale shafts, stronger now that the rain had ended.

None of the happenings of the last months seemed important in that moment because Minerva had never needed him more than in that moment. In hindsight it shouldn't have surprised her that he had found her that evening for Tom was much like midnight- the nights had always seemed to belong to him in all their starlit glory. Everything was black and white and he was too, with that smooth pale skin and the gleaming eyes, so deeply blue in the starlit silence.

With trembling hands, she took the handkerchief and felt how its silky material crinkled beneath her hands. For a fleeting moment, she wondered how Tom could have come by a handkerchief made out of silk, but the thought was inconsistent and soon left her.

Tom sat down next to her, a black shadow, weariness evident in his movements. There was a feeling of surrealism to the entire scene- Minerva felt rather as if she was dreaming this moment than actually experiencing it. In her mind she envisioned that none of the things that had happened had in fact happened- Justin wasn't lying petrified in the Hospital Wing, Poppy was happy with William, Tom and herself were foolishly in love and happier every day, her father was healthy…

"Life is so unfair."

"No one ever said that life was fair," Tom pointed out smoothly and only after a long, shaken moment did Minerva finally realise that the croaky whisper before had been hers and that she had actually uttered her thoughts out loud.

"How can you live with it?" she whispered.

Tom didn't seem to be himself that night either. With uncharacteristic vulnerability, he replied gently:  
"I deal life the same blows that it deals me. Living is a constant battle that is fought with unjust methods, yet it is better than dying, `for in that sleep of death what dreams may come´," he quoted Hamlet's famed soliloquy with a twisted grin, his teeth gleaming in the pale light of the moon.

A spark of Gryffindor anger rushed through Minerva, golden and red and furious, and she croaked harshly, her voice cracking under the strain of an evening spent sobbing:

"So dealing those blows means that you are willing to hurt innocents? I'll quote you. You said that I shouldn't be sad about the attack on Justin because he slighted me all those years. So there you said it yourself- you are willing to hurt anyone if it fits your aims. Isn't that hypocritical? Life deals blows to everyone. Shouldn't you have more understanding for the plights of others seeing how life has treated you so far? They might be in the exact same position as you found yourself in for so many years, Tom…"

"Dear God," he moaned as reply, nearly desperately and a part of Minerva thought that it was odd to hear him sound like that- Tom normally wasn't prone to passion, yet may there in the silence of the night he just might have been. They had little pretences before each other now. He didn't trust her completely and she knew it, but then again he trusted no one and maybe he trusted her most of all of those who he didn't trust.

What a conundrum, but then again, Tom was a conundrum.

"Minerva, I don't want destruction. I want reforms, Minerva, I want to build and create and see- do you really believe that such a black-and-white categorical thinking as we have it now applies to something as lively and vibrant as magic? Magic is not like that, Minerva. Can you have high without low tide? No, of course not. Neither can you have dark magic without light magic. There has to be a balance somewhere. And I do want to find it."

His gaze wandered past her, temporarily, to something only he could see. "Of course a human life is too short to achieve it all," he mused quietly and there was something about his words that made her shiver.

"But there are things that can be changed and will be changed."

Then, he was at her ear, quickly, a mere flash of silver and white and black.

"Please, Minerva. Think. I want things to go back to the way they were." He caressed her cheek, fleetingly, inconsistently- and then got up to move out of the door.

Minerva stared blankly after him, the weight of this night's happenings and of her Mother's letter almost crushing her.

"Don't go," she whispered and hated herself for the despair in her voice.

With a quick movement Tom was back at her side and lifted her off the ground, crushing her to a chest in an embrace that nearly suffocated her. "I won't ever go, my Minerva. Don't you worry, now. We will be together and I promise I will never leave you, no matter what happens."

Minerva buried her face in his shoulder and, despising herself all the way for her weakness, inhaled his familiar scent. She was stupid for falling for him so easily again considering what he'd done, and she knew it, but as her world crumbled around her he seemed to be the only one who could hold it together.

"My father is dying," she choked out and another sob gripped her with all the finality of that statement.

As a response, Tom hugged her tighter, enveloping her in the comforting warmth of his embrace.

"I will be there for you," he repeated his earlier words, "no matter what happens. Even if I can't be now."

He seemed to sense her doubt at his words and continued quickly: "There are reasons for my absence as of late, Minerva, and you surely know they have nothing to do with school work. Please just keep in mind that there are darker things going on in this castle and you have to be careful."

With an air of finality, he carefully disentangled himself from her and brushed a few stray tears out of her face. "There are darker things going on here," he repeated, and added, seemingly disjointedly, "your friend Hagrid has a passion for dark creatures."

Without giving her the chance to reply, Tom brushed out of the room, looking back at the threshold with a mysterious smile on his handsome features. "So long, my Minerva," was all he said.

* * *

**Hogwarts, November 20th, 1942**

The next morning, Minerva McGonagall, Headgirl of Gryffindor, emerged from her rooms, paler, a bit drawn, but she was definitely doing her duties that day. Tom's words stayed with her though and she found herself watching her young friend Hagrid closely over dinner that day. The third-year Gryffindor seemed to be concerned for some reason; he was pushing his food- Haggis out of all things that day- around on his plate and didn't seem to be keeping up with his usual ravenous appetite.

"Is everything alright, Rubeus?" Minerva asked after watching his demeanour for a few minutes. She sat down beside him and suppressed the pang of guilt at the childish worry on his young face- it was true, she had sounded harsher than she had intended to.

"Yes," Rubeus replied finally with a small smile. "Thank you, Minerva, I hope you are fine, too?"

That immediately served to make her feel even guiltier for doubting him. "I am fine," she managed.

Rubeus watched her for a few moments longer, doubt written plainly on his face. "Alright then," he mumbled after another doubtful look. Minerva had seen what he had seen in the mirror that morning as well- she was looking decidedly unhealthy, white in the face and with a harassed air about her.

Sighing, she eventually opted for the direct approach. "Rubeus, I know that you are keeping something from me."

His gentle brown eyes widened as he paled dramatically. Her friend had never been good at keeping his emotions from showing on his face, the complete opposite to Tom in that regard as well.

"Please," he stuttered, shaking his curly mass of hair, "please, Minerva, I promise you, it is nothing dangerous. He- I mean- it- it would never be dangerous to anyone."

Minerva narrowed her eyes at him with a look that had many of the younger troublemakers quiver before their Headgirl already. "Do you promise me, Rubeus, that your words are the truth?"

Rubeus reddened fiercely but he held her look and bit his lip. "I do promise that, I really do."

Minerva nodded sternly and wanted to add that no matter what it was, they would probably both be feeling better if he just told her, so they could deal with the consequences, when suddenly the door to the Great Hall was wrenched open with a loud bang.

All heads swivelled around to look at their Librarian, Madam Scrittura, who was pale and whose eyes were widened in terror. Her black hair, normally so strictly put up in a bun, was tumbling around her shoulders and that alone seemed to be the epitome of something dire.

The Great Hall fell deathly silent.

"Headmaster," she spoke, not bothering to be discreet, shock compelling her to speak, "Headmaster! There has been another attack…"

In the panic that followed, Minerva happened to glance at Rubeus.

He had gone ashen-faced beside her.

* * *

_tbc_


	22. 1943 Part I

_Hello everyone, and especially hello to my wonderful wonderful reviewers! Once again, I apologise that I haven't been able to reply to your reviews personally so far- I am going to do so soon- but university, pre-Christmas hectic and everything else got the better of me...Thank you for your kind words, **Believe, Megii, Codie, iviscrit, Mara, Cassia** and **SherbetKitty**! __I hope you are all doing well! Your reviews are wonderful and they brighten my days up. So thank you very much._

_This chapter is longer to compensate you for the wait and I'll stop rambling now. Just one last thing- in this chapter I don't only have to apologise for my mistreatment of the English language (as usual :D) but also for some bad Chinese. Sorry :)_

_Sachita_

* * *

**Chapter Twenty-One  
**

**On a train to Scotland, somewhere in Great Britain, December 22nd, 1942**

Ice chunks pelted violently against the hull of the sturdy train, as if to attempting to put it to a halt, yet the monster of iron and steel rumbled unwaveringly on into the early darkness of late afternoon. The train was packed; as many people were eager to get home to spend the Christmas holidays with their families. A compartment near the back was occupied by three passengers: an older man, who was leaning against the window pane, deeply asleep, an old woman with a strict grey bun and a manual for knitting patterns clutched tightly in her hands as well as a black-haired young girl with a huge trunk and an empty bird cage.

Minerva, for it was no other, replied to the kind smile of the old Muggle woman sitting next to her with a half-hearted smile of her own and continued looking out of the window at the nightly scenery as she had been doing for the last hour, ever since she had departed from London King's Cross Station to her native Scotland.

It was odd, she reflected miserably, having to go to her home all by her own. Even though she had never been overly fond of her mother's cold company, travelling the wizard way was surely quicker.

Plus, she was rather eager to get home, seeing that Mother had sent her a letter no two days ago, telling her that her father was faring worse. However, Mother had also added that this was precisely the reason why she could not go and get Minerva herself. So there she was, not able to apparate on her own yet because she had not finished the necessary spellwork, and she was forced to travel the Muggle way. By train.

Pursing her lips, she allowed herself to get lost in the wintry scenery flying by outside. The night was a clear one and the stars were clearly visible, tiny diamonds against the vast black expanse of the sky. The last vestiges of the sunset were still there, painting the sky in fiery hues against the encroaching darkness.

The clear air allowed a good view of the gently sloping English hills and the few trees standing on a hillock flying by, a house, the lights of a village- all as if painted by a very careful artist who made sure that his lines were accurate and his colours rich in contrast to the fading day.

"The scenery is beautiful, wouldn't you agree, dear?"

Minerva nodded in a distracted manner, just barely polite, and hid her face between her dark strands of hair. After some time, the old woman made an unsatisfied sound and turned away.

Minerva stayed like that for a long time, staring fixedly at the dark spots on the train's floor, left by some unsightly venture, and replayed the events of the last weeks in her head…

* * *

"_It's Maud McDavid from Ravenclaw! A third year!" That was what everyone knew by the next day after Madam Scrittura, their Librarian, had hysterically announced that there was another one petrified._

_Soon enough, everyone had deducted as well that both Justin Miller and Maud McDavid were Muggleborn- which in turn made Muggleborns and pupils who had one Muggle parent pale, some blood-purists –mainly of Slytherin house- laugh in secret glee, and the liberal pureblooded witches and wizards exchange grim looks. _

_On that day after Maud's "accident", as everyone now talked about it in hushed tones, Minerva happened to overhear a conversation between Professor Dumbledore and Headmaster Dippet._

_Dippet seemed frailer than usual; a mere shadow of the man who was on good days looking as if he wouldn't make it far, and Dumbledore seemed grim, his eyes devoid of their twinkle and his face tired. Minerva hid in the shadows of a pillar, avidly listening, attempting to calm her guilty conscience by telling herself that she was Headgirl and had a right to know what was going on, too._

"…_has to be like that, Armando," Dumbledore was saying._

_Dippet's gravelly voice reflected shock. "But close the school, Albus? I really do appreciate your advice, but I feel that this is not the correct course of action. Just imagine the headlines in all respected newspapers and the image Hogwarts will get!"_

_Dumbledore seemed to deflate after what had probably been a long round of arguing. "As you wish, Armando. But I am warning you-" And there was an edge to his voice that hadn't been there before and made Minerva cringe even though she wasn't on its receiving end. Suddenly she couldn't help but wonder whether Tom was right when he talked about Professor Dumbledore's manipulative streak. She was always idolising the man, but was she really right in doing so? _

"_Yes, Albus, I heard what you said." Dippet's voice seemed to shake. "And I agree," he continued, stronger. "If there's another attack, we will close the school. But for now, I would like to leave it as it is. Madam Yuhe assured me just today that she is certain the mandrake draught will be ready soon…"_

_The voices faded in the distance as the two teachers continued onto another staircase. Minerva pressed herself against the wall and exhaled deeply, her thoughts straying unbidden to what might happen if she could not stay here…the prospect of being cooped up with her mother all day long did not do much to lift her spirits, although she felt an urgent need to see her father and make sure that he wasn't faring as badly as Mother had described…_

* * *

A sharp cough coming from her left made Minerva look up, harshly thrown out of her thoughts. Outside the sky had turned a pitch black and quickly-moving clouds hid the stars from view.

The cough had come from the old woman sitting beside her. She had dozed off, her heavy glasses hanging precariously on her nose, and the book about knitting patterns hanging loosely between her fingers.

A photograph came tumbling from out of the book when the old woman jerked harshly in her sleep. Minerva carefully bent down and picked it up. It was an obituary leaflet; showing a young man, just a few years older than her, with a wide smile and light wavy hair. A Muggle black-and-white photograph and the young man wasn't moving on it, but Minerva thought that if he had moved he would have surely waved happily for there was lots of mischief and laughter in his eyes.

"Carl Joseph Baker, 1920-1942- he died honourably and valiantly for his country," it said underneath the picture. Minerva's eyes were suddenly burning horribly and she tucked the picture back into the book, feeling ashamed of herself, when she remembered how rude she had been earlier to the old woman. Who had that young man been? Her nephew? Her son? Her grandson? She had no idea.

How the plight of the Muggles in this horrible war was ignored by the magic world! They had no right to judge the Muggles, Minerva reflected, and leaned back into her hard seat. And she should be angry at Tom for it, when she remembered their latest conversation about Muggles, yet she couldn't bring herself to be angry at him, not when she remembered the way he had held onto her…

* * *

_**Hogwarts' Library, December 10**__**th**__**, 1942 **_

_Tom was half-lying over the stack of his library books, deeply asleep. It was a very uncommon occurrence, to see him, who never let down his guard, so unaware in such a public place. The blue-tinged bags underneath his eyes were telling though. His dark hair spilled over the stack of books he was curled up on in a careless manner and his eyelids fluttered softly as she approached. One of his long arms pillowed his head while the other was curled up carelessly on his lap. _

_Abraxas Malfoy was sitting nearby and his watchful gaze never left Minerva, but she stood her ground defiantly and glared at him until he bowed his head in a submissive manner and left the library. _

_That left her at odds for a moment- Tom's power over his minions, even when he was asleep, was truly terrifying and her position as a girlfriend lent her some of this power. Minerva shuddered. She didn't want any of it._

_Shoving the thought away for the moment, she concentrated again on Tom. He was snuffling quietly in his sleep but was still otherwise. He looked nearly innocent lying there, but she knew better. _

"_Tom," Minerva called softly._

_He stirred, but did not wake._

"_Tom…" _

_Groggily, he opened bleary eyes. "Minerva?" he asked slowly, squinting, vulnerable in his befuddled confusion._

"_Hello stranger," she said, smiling gently at his confusion. Regaining some of his cool, Tom asked: "And where__ might__ you have heard that phrase?"_

"_Poppy likes to quote American colloquialisms at me sometimes," Minerva professed and grinned. "She says that this is something the American soldiers stationed in her hometown of Bath sometimes use." _

"_Forgive me for saying so," Tom mumbled, pushing himself up on his elbows, looking her up and down until she blushed, "but you don't give a good impression of an American G.I. to me and trust me when I say that I have seen a few of those chaps running around in London those last few years."_

_Minerva shrugged it off and sat down next to him, pushing the long sleeves of her white blouse back. Tom began to lazily tug on one of her hair pins, stopping only when she shot him a warning look. _

"_I missed you," she stated then. Tom turned to look at her. "I am sorry for not being around so much," he said, "but as you know I have my reasons." _

"_Mother wrote to me last week," Minerva whispered and she stared straight ahead even though her eyes were beginning to sting furiously. "Father has taken a turn for the worse…"_

_Tom inched closer and without another word pressed a kiss to the side of her head before putting an arm around her waist. Minerva leaned into his touch, a small part of her angered at showing so much weakness, but the bigger part of her grateful for his support, for no matter how much she might disagree with his twisted world views he was still her Tom and that was all that counted to her in that moment. She could not see past that._

_Swallowing the tears, she eventually pulled away. "It is nothing," she mumbled and forced a smile. "Is is nothing."_

_Two young Hufflepuff students giggling over a picture that seemed to be made of metal, showing a handsome movie actor on a flashy advertisement, caught her eye. Attempting to divert Tom's perceptive blue stare, she pointed to them. "What are they looking at?"_

"_Tin cards," Tom suddenly proclaimed in a whisper. Minerva glanced at him and saw that his midnight eyes were gazing past her as if recollecting some old memory. "Tin cards. The children in the Orphanage used to collect them. I had one of my own, too, showing the face of an American actress from the Twenties. She had long black locks and a wide smile. I used to imagine that this was how my moth- an angel looked like…"_

_Minerva had caught his slip and he knew it, too, for he refused to look her in the eye. Attempting to brush over the matter in order not to embarrass him further, she stated warmly: "See? You do have some good memories of Muggles after all."_

_Tom scoffed. "They shattered those few good memories soon enough." His face was contorted to a hateful snarl, the dark eyes embittered. "The orphanage has never been a happy place- this building is made of greed, bitterness and long years of misery and hunger. Oh, of course you might say, it's just the orphanage and the rest of the world is better…but just look at this war. Innocent people being slaughtered like pigs, children are starving to death and everything that was good and whole before is being destroyed. And for what? For naught. Muggles are like animals." _

_Tom laughed bitterly. "But it doesn't matter."_

_His handsome face was twisted into a strange, nasty grimace. As he became aware of Minerva's alarmed look, his expression became shuttered and he gave her a blank look._

"_What doesn't matter?" Minerva asked, putting her hand on his hand lying on the table._

_Tom looked down at their joined hands for a long moment and then raised his face, his eyes glittering in an oddly horribly light. "I'll be honest with you," he stated blandly, his blandness belying the brutal directness of his statement, "the people all don't matter. Nothing matters in the end."_

_Minerva put a hand in front of her mouth to stifle a gasp. "Tom!" she cried. "Tom! You can't mean that?"_

"_Why not?" he challenged._

_Minerva felt how bitterness and pity rose up slowly inside of her, filling her mouth with acid and her eyes with tears._

"_But you do matter to me," she told him, getting up and kneeling down next to his chair, putting his arms around him to hold him tight. Maybe she should have felt angered at him, but all she could feel was an insurmountable amount of pity and the desire to make him see that not all was as horrible as he made it out to be. Unlike Professor Dumbledore, she refused to pass him off as a lost cause._

"_You do matter to me more than I could ever say, Tom," Minerva whispered, her voice choked-up. "I love you."_

_Tom stayed stiff in her hold, but relaxed marginally and, allowing himself a moment of rare vulnerability, rested his dark head in the crook of her neck._

_In that moment, Minerva wished that she could somehow undo all the hurt inflicted on him in his younger years that had thwarted his views of humanity so._

_But Tom was no lost cause. There was light in life and Minerva vowed to try and make him see it. _

_She would, as long as she was alive- and even beyond that, as long as she had a consciousness to speak of - never give up on him._

* * *

"Next station coming up is Edinburgh," a voice came from farther away, coming steadily closer as its owner moved down the corridor, repeating the words.

A harsh gust of wind came in as the conductor roughly opened the door to their compartment. He was a stout, short man with a black moustache and eyes that gleamed like brown buttons. His nose was rather long. "Next station coming up is Edinburgh," he yelled with an accent that placed him somewhere in Northern England, "is there anyone who wishes to get out at Edinburgh in here?"

The old Lady next to Minerva was already gathering her things. "Yes, me," she said.

The conductor nodded and moved farther down the train. As the engine came to a screeching halt and they pulled into Edinburgh Central Station, Minerva looked chagrined at the old woman, remembering the young man on the picture and her own behaviour.

"I hope you have a safe journey home," she stammered.

To her surprise the old Lady smiled gently, wrinkling her wrinkled face even further into one of those smiles that made you feel as if you had had a steaming cup of hot chocolate on a cold winter's day. Startled, Minerva smiled back.

"You too, dearie," she said, "you too. And look after yourself. These are hard times."

With a lump in her throat, Minerva nodded at her to bid her good-bye, reflecting on the kindness of strangers in unexpected places.

When the old woman was gone, she chanced a look at the man sitting opposite her, still sleeping. The ticket that stuck half-way out of his pocket said "Aberde" and Minerva could guess that if fully pulled out of his pocket, it would say "Aberdeen", which meant that she wouldn't have to wake him just yet.

As the train pulled out of the station in a huge cloud of white smoke, Minerva closed her eyes, remembering the last conversation with Tom, in the other train she had just left this forenoon.

* * *

_**Hogwarts Express, earlier that day**_

"_They want to do what?" Tom was raging, pale in the face and flushed at the same time. He looked nearly feverish. "They can't close Hogwarts! I can't go back there. I can't. It's bad enough, having to go there during the holidays." He dragged his hands through his hair in genuine desperation, staring at her. "I can't."_

_Minerva could only offer wordless support by placing a hand on his knee. "It will turn out to be alright."_

"_No," Tom whispered in an anguished manner, turning away from her. "It won't. And I can't go there. But if," he added, eyes suddenly gleaming in a rather different light, "if the culprit was found, do you think they wouldn't close Hogwarts?"_

_Minerva looked cautiously at him, pushing some black hair behind her ear. "Possibly," she amended warily. "Why? Do you know anything about it?"_

_They hadn't talked about the attacks or anything of the matter ever since that dreadful conversation about the brutal methods employed at Tom's orphanage and neither wished to dredge up the matter again, but this was simply something Minerva had to know about._

"_No," Tom replied, giving her a sharp look. "Why would I?" In a slightly mocking manner, he pointed to the wrist that Minerva had come to think of as their respective Unbreakable-vow-wrist. _

_Suddenly he changed topics. "Write to me, will you?" he requested. "About everything."_

"_I will," Minerva promised. He leaned forward abruptly, pressing an oddly chaste kiss to her cheek, before withdrawing and staring out of the window, having reverted to one of his odd mood swings. Minerva let him be. He remained like that for much of the voyage, staring pensively and moodily out of the window, only sometimes caressing her cheek or kissing her, still in that oddly chaste manner. _

_Minerva allowed him to do as he pleased and busied herself reading a book about Advanced Transformations in other Dimensions, even if her eyes strayed up from the book from time to time, gazing at him, wondering what he was thinking about…_

_After that, it all went rather quickly. After saying her good-byes to Poppy, Minerva travelled onwards to King's Cross Station, where Tom, who had accompanied her there, left her with a rather abrupt but fierce good-bye kiss that had several conservative old hags standing nearby gasp collectively._

* * *

Well, and now she was here. They had arrived in Aberdeen and Minerva got up to look for the train that would carry her further to Inverness where Fletcher would be waiting for her. Before she left the train, however, she woke the man up- who thanked her in a rather unfriendly manner.

The train was quicker than she would have expected in Inverness and as she got out, she could see Fletcher's slight figure at the end of the platform, standing just underneath a lamp, invisible to Muggles. He was waving at her.

She waved back; ignoring the curious looks she received from bystanders, and grabbed her trunk, taking a deep breath.

Then she walked towards Fletcher, her head held high.

* * *

**McGonagall Manor, Scotland, December 29th, 1942**

Christmas had passed rather peacefully that year- her mother usually liked to throw huge dinner parties, inviting lots of pureblood families that all shared the trait that Minerva couldn't stand them. But this year, it had been quiet. Even depressingly so. They had spent Christmas sitting on the couch in front of the fireplace, her mother watching her father hawk-like from her place on the couch opposite of him, while making forced conversation with Minerva.

Her father had remained rather silent, only sometimes coughing or inserting a remark or the other, before reverting to light dozing again.

Some days after Christmas, Minerva sat outside with her father. It was a rather sunny day and that, together with the heat charms placed on them, made the December cold meaningless. Fletcher had brought her father a red-green chequered woollen blanket nonetheless, along with a cup of tea, watching him all the while with tearful grey eyes.

Minerva had remained silent for a long time, but she found she couldn't hold it in anymore.

"Maybe the doctors didn't know what they were talking about. There has to be a cure. They don't even exactly know what it is that you suffer from. Surely there is something they can do…" She choked on her last word, whispering: "Anyone…"

As a reply, Gavyn McGonagall was silent for a long time. His green eyes, so like his daughter's, were watching thoughtfully how a hunting hawk in the distance circled through the freezing air. The sun reflected brightly off the hills of snow surrounding them. Dust motes danced in the air. Then, her father began to speak.

"There is life, Minerva, and there is death. When you move through your life, you will discover that there is more than one shade to things. The image of a sunlit lake comes to mind. Maybe your vantage point will be from whence you can only see the sun's glare on the water and it is beautiful in its own right, yet if you move into the shade of the oak tree standing nearby you will find that there are fish just beyond the surface of the water which you were unable to see because the sun blinded you."

Minerva listened in silence and watched her father inconspicuously. For the first time it occurred to her how old he had become. His formerly brown hair had become so thin and never had the grey strands in his hair seemed as obvious as on that sunny winter's day. Her father caught her despondent look and smiled gently.

"Don't be sad, my dear. I have seen that lake in summertime as in the silence of winter. There have been twists and turns, yet the sun never entirely faded from view, even as my point of view changed. The only thing I want to ensure is your happiness, Minerva."

Her father reached out with a trembling hand and placed it on her cheek. Minerva leant into his touch and enjoyed the brief warmth it provided, fearful of the moment when it would be gone.

"Examine everything that happens and everything that is being said to you in your life carefully, for you never know if your interlocutor happens to be standing at the other side of the lake. What are his motivations? You have to see whether he merely wishes to gaze at the sunlit scenery of the lake or whether he aims to drain the lake, to reclaim land as he sees fit. Be careful about that. People may not always have the best intentions towards you."

Gavyn McGonagall found her eyes again and his smile widened. "Don't be sad, now," he repeated warmly, "I am happy, Minerva. I truly am. And the only thing I now pray for is that you may lead a long, happy and successful life. This is not good-bye…"

A stray tear made its way down Minerva's cheek and her lips quivered, as she attempted to hold back a sob, faced with this horrible loss that seemed so imminent yet so far away for her father was sitting there, healthy and whole next to her. The notion that soon he wouldn't be was so hard to grasp.

Her father took her hand and held it in his own. "I will be watching," he promised and as he repeated his words his voice was a mere whisper. "I will be watching. Always…"

* * *

**Hogwarts, February 4th, 1943**

"I think we should have a spring ball."

Everyone's heads swivelled around to look at Myleena O'Reilly, Seventh Year Slytherin Prefect, who was twisting a strand of her long blond hair around her finger, looking bored.

The Second Prefects' meeting this semester had been going for on for over two hours now and they seemed to be heading nowhere, but, Minerva thought in irritation, Myleena's remark didn't help any.

"A ball," Minerva said dryly, stressing the ridiculousness of that request. Jonathan Taylor at her side also raised an eyebrow.

"Yes," Myleena said slowly. "Why not?"

"Because there are two petrified pupils lying in the Hospital Wing, we have no idea when the next attack will happen and we should be anything but cheerful?" Poppy commented furiously, her face turning alarmingly red underneath her russet hair.

"I do happen to agree with Myleena," a calm baritone spoke up. Minerva nearly gave herself whiplash staring at Tom, feeling terribly betrayed. He held up a hand as if to placate her, and as usual, people listened to him. Even this squabbling herd of prefects listened.

Torn between anger and curiosity, Minerva bit her lip and remained silent.

"If we don't have a ball and allow ourselves to be pulled down by these attacks, wouldn't we indirectly allow the attacker to win? Shouldn't we be defiant and have a ball, no matter what happened? It's something to think of, something to divert ourselves with."

Tom smiled charmingly. "The Ladies will have fun picking out the dresses, of course," he said smoothly and this announcement immediately led to excited whispers coming from some Fifth and Sixth Year Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff Prefects, all female. Minerva shot them a glare that silenced them immediately. Tom gave her an amused sideways glance.

"Well then," Minerva said, sighing. She had no desire to experience another argument. "Let's vote and see what we end up deciding in a majority vote. What do you say?" she asked, turning to Jonathan. He merely gave her a nod, coldly telling her to go ahead.

The majority vote ended up being in favour of the ball and Minerva finally had to give in.

When she called the prefect meeting to an end and left the room, walking side by side with Tom, she couldn't help but point out: "I won't have fun picking out dresses."

Tom snorted. "Well, I do know that, Minerva." He remained silent for a moment, as if debating whether or not to tell her, then he said: "I did it for you."

"For me?"

"Yes." He seemed reluctant to go any further and then strode ahead with wide steps, leaving her no choice but to run in order to catch up with him.

"What do you mean, for me?" Minerva repeated, nearly tripping over her long robes when she followed him up a staircase, sidestepping a crowd of Third-Year-Hufflepuffs.

"Because of your father," he admitted finally, when she grabbed a hold of his wide sleeve and forced him to stop. "I wanted you to think of something else."

To her own surprise, Minerva found that her voice was choked-up. Thoughts of her father made tears come to her eyes quickly these days. But this was surprisingly thoughtful of him.

"Thank you," she merely said, hoping to convey all her sincerity in that word.

Tom nodded emotionlessly and she knew that he was walling up, like he sometimes did when he had done something that made him uncomfortable.

* * *

Raised voices coming from a corridor nearby made them stop and frown at each other. They raced down the staircase, past portraits showing idyllic English landscapes and some Wizard nobles, who gave them sceptic looks.

The corridor they entered was one of the darker ones that had no windows to the outside. Torches flickered on the bare stone walls, throwing red and golden shadows on the carpeted red floor. But that was not what caught Minerva's attention.

In letters that were of an odd, greenish colour resembling the mud found at the edges of the lake it said "THE CHAMBER OF SECRETS HAS BEEN OPENED. SLYTHERIN'S NOBLE WORK WILL BE COMPLETED."

Minerva gasped and steadied herself on Tom's arm. Her gaze happened to fall on Antonin Dolohov, who stood among the gaggle of students on the opposite side of the corridor. He was smirking. Minerva stared at him, aghast, until a well-known voice to her left made her turn around quickly.

"Miss McGonagall, Mister Riddle," Professor Dumbledore acknowledged.

"Professor Dumbledore," Minerva said hurriedly. "Do you know who did this?" She motioned to the letters.

"No," Professor Dumbledore replied firmly and his gaze hushed past her to Tom, an appraising look in his eyes, "but we will see to it that whoever did this will be punished."

"Of course, Professor," Tom commented smoothly.

Professor Dumbledore bowed his head and looked at them sharply over the rims of his half-moon glasses. "Did you notice anything amiss or suspicious in this corridor today?"

"We just came from the Prefect meeting," Minerva said, "and this is a corridor not often used by pupils or teachers. I think I last crossed it yesterday on my way to your Transfiguration class and there was nothing there." Dumbledore hmm-ed contemplatively and then turned to Tom, his voice quite sharp.

"And what about you, Tom?"

Tom seemed to despise the use of his first name, noticeable in the way he stiffened slightly, but Minerva doubted anyone else had seen it. "I have seen nothing, Professor," he stated coolly but politely, "I crossed this corridor today morning when I was on my way from the Great Hall to the Slytherin common room."

"Very well then," Professor Dumbledore stated. "A shame that you two, who are so bright, didn't see anything. I am sure it would have been valuable information."

"Yes, Professor." Again it was Tom, who answered. "But we didn't notice anything."

He shot them a last meaningful glance- though Minerva felt as if there was some disappointment in his gaze as well when he looked at her- and then walked over to speak to Headmaster Dippet, who had just arrived.

"What was that?" Minerva asked, whirling around to Tom.

He motioned for her to follow him and she did so. He didn't stop until they were standing in the Astronomy Tower, gazing out over the school grounds.

"I told you that Dumbledore hates me," Tom stated matter-of-factly, pushing back some dark hair that had fallen into his eyes. "Do you believe me now?"

"But why would he think so?" Minerva wondered, grasping at straws. She steadied herself on a window sill, her thoughts erratic. "Why would he think you know anything about the Chamber of Secrets?"

"I have read about it," Tom admitted. "It's supposed to be a secret chamber designed by Salazar Slytherin himself, when he left the castle after a horrible argument with Gryffindor. It's an old school myth. It's said to be the home of a monster."

"A monster?" Minerva inquired. A cold shiver ran down her spine.

Tom laughed shortly. "Like I said, it's a myth. And I don't know anything about it." He looked at her firmly, pointing to his wrist. "I can't have anything to do with those two, who are petrified. Unbreakable vow, remember?"

Irritation flared up in his eyes. "It's a shame you don't believe me without me referring to that bloody bow," he muttered darkly.

Minerva looked at him for a long moment and then shook her head with a frown. "No," she said slowly, "you are right and I am sorry. What about Dolohov, for instance?"

"Antonin?" Tom 's mood seemed to be torn between amusement and further irritation. "Never."

"He was laughing…" Minerva mumbled and gazed out at the wintry scenery below them.

Tom didn't reply for a long time. Eventually, he said, sounding very weary:

"We should really have that ball and hope that whoever it is will be caught by then. There is enough horror happening in the world these days."

* * *

**Hogwarts, February 27****th****, 1943**

February passed without any incidents, for which Minerva was immensely grateful. It was bad enough, receiving the messages from home with updates about her father's steadily deteriorating condition.

On a cold February day an owl bearing a package came rushing into the Head Common Room late in the afternoon, where Poppy and Minerva were sitting having some afternoon tea. Dishevelled and wet from the heavy snowfall outside, the owl glared at them until they had freed the package from its talons.

Then, with a sharp hoot, it was gone.

"What a moody bird…" Poppy mumbled, shaking her head.

Meanwhile, Minerva had opened the package and smiled when she saw what was inside. Wordless, she handed it to Poppy, who glanced at the slim red book Minerva was holding out to her. When she opened it, her eyes widened.

在中國，藍色的意思是永生。

Poppy dropped the book and frowned, eyeing her friend. "You know," she said slowly, "I've always wondered about the mental health of you two, but this…"

Minerva, however, was laughing in delight. "It's a test!" she cried with shining eyes.

Poppy raised an eyebrow and dryly muttered something about the courage that only madness can give or the prospect of feeling inexplicable amounts of joy at having to translate Chinese characters, which clearly translated to lunacy in her book…

Minerva ignored her. "It's a riddle," she whispered, reaching out tentatively to stroke over the bold Chinese characters, almost in a reverent manner.

"I suppose a simple _Translatore _won't work, now will it?" she muttered and raised her wand. Nothing happened. "Well, I thought so…"

She closed her eyes then, long dark lashes brushing feather-like over pale cheeks, a small smile playing upon her lips for a moment before she nodded to herself and raised her wand.

Poppy broke the silence. "Well, what is it?" she asked impatiently. Still, Minerva didn't reply.

With a concentrated expression, she waved her wand- once, twice- and the intricate signs unpeeled themselves from the pages of the slim book to sail gracefully into the air, twirling once as if to present their elegance and elaborate beauty to the two spectators watching their silent, sun-lit dance, before gradually melting into puddles of blue ink.

The puddles rapidly reshaped into butterflies that swirled freely through the room and around Poppy's head, who laughed in delight, as she attempted to catch them. She actually succeeded and they both gasped in surprise as the butterfly disintegrated on the back of Poppy's hand. A graceful, cursive script started to appear that Minerva knew all too well.

"_Dear Miss Pomfrey," _it said smoothly, _"I thought you might be reading my message to Minerva as well, as it seems to be impossible to separate the two of you sometimes. By all means then, read it as well. Regarding it to be my duty to see to it that Minerva's best friend is taken good care of, I saw to it that there will be some Linzer tortes at the spring ball. I shall hope that we will be able to settle our former differences now. Have a pleasant evening. Sincerely, Tom Riddle."_

Poppy bit her lip. "He's such a charmer," she said, with a note of incredulity. "But that was actually pretty nice of him. It seems as if your Tom is making an effort." She flashed a quirky smile at Minerva. "Are there marriage plans I should be aware of coming up any time soon?"

"What?" Minerva asked indignantly. "No, most certainly not." She bit back a smile. Knowing Tom, he had some ulterior motive, and making sure that there was Poppy's favourite food at the ball was probably only some incredibly sneaky way of making sure that Poppy was too occupied trying to get a piece of the tart – which by some very odd coincidence would probably be there in only a small amount- to stick to Minerva's side. That of course in return meant, that Tom was planning something for Minerva- and that was never a good thing.

The other butterflies had meanwhile found one of Minerva's parchments and the process repeated itself. Inconspicuously Minerva tugged the parchment out of sight. For some reason she felt that it was meant for her eyes only and although Poppy was her best friend, there were some aspects of Tom's and hers relationship that she guarded almost in a jealous manner- it was only for her to know how his eyes looked like when he shot her one of his intense looks, how the little wrinkles around his eyes crinkled when he smiled, how his laugh sounded when he was amused by something, even how his hugs felt- so warm and reassuring…

* * *

Minerva stuffed the parchment deep inside her robe pocket and excused herself from Poppy, slinging her bag over her shoulder. Once she had exited the castle, she broke into a run.

A gnarled old tree was standing some way off to the side overlooking the Grounds. White frost clung to its branches, but in the February sun, its branches crackled and the ice thawed. Minerva sat down some way behind it, out of sight from the school's windows, gazing up at the elegant white spectacle for a moment.

Then, she tugged the parchment out of her robes.

"_My dear Minerva,"_ it read, _"I daresay that you are alone as you read this. All the better for it, seeing that this is meant for your eyes only. At nine o'clock this evening, when they are all busy dancing, I would like to invite you to come to the Forbidden Forest with me. I'd like to show you something. When I exit the dance hall, wait for ten minutes and then follow me. Trust me. It's a surprise and I hope you will like it. But for now, try your best transformation skill s on this message. After all, what was once whole, shall be complete again. Tom."_

Try her best transformation skills? Minerva frowned.

And what was whole should be complete again? The only thing that came to her mind was that the Chinese message from before should be restored. She focused on her magic, felt it pulsating around her and channelled it through her wand to the parchment.

Like before, the butterflies danced through the air, transformed into the Chinese characters, which in turn seemed to entangle themselves into another, becoming something far more substantial, flowing…something that fell into Minerva's hands when she opened them to catch it.

It was a knee-length dress; in the darkest blue Minerva had ever seen, with a wide skirt and a bow at the side. It was beautiful; its hues of blue seemed to change as she turned it from side to side. A note fell out of the dress.

In Tom's elegant handwriting, it said: "Congratulations, my dear Minerva, though I never thought you would not make it. I shall also provide the translation of the Chinese to you, because your _translatore_ obviously didn't work. "在中國，藍色的意思是永生。" It means, that in China, the colour blue signifies immortality. The Chinese wish for a long life if they wish others luck. I do hope you have a long life, Minerva. And I wish you all the happiness in the world."

Butterflies danced through Minerva's stomach that day and not even Elma's snide commentaries in the Great Hall that evening could wipe the small smile off her face.

* * *

**Hogwarts, March 20****th****, 1943**

As Minerva read the newspaper on the day before the ball, sitting at the breakfast table and sipping at her cup of Earl Grey, she could not help but think of Tom's words a month prior that they should have a ball because enough horror was happening in the world already.

The Daily Prophet had several pages dedicated to the happenings in the Muggle war as well, and Minerva read with horror about the execution of several students from Munich, who had dared to oppose the Nazi Regime in Germany. Hans and Sophie Scholl had been the leaders of that group, called "Weiße Rose", who had distributed leaflets urging the German people to take action against the regime in the name of liberty and human rights. They had both been executed in Munich on February 22nd, Hans aged 24 and Sophie aged 21.

Minerva felt herself shaking. 21 years!, she thought. That was just four years older than herself and it was certainly too young to die.

There she read about something else, which upset her even further. Apparently, two days ago, on March 3rd, 173 people had been killed in a crush while trying to enter an air-raid-shelter at Bethnal Green tube station, London.

Good god, she thought, horrified, as she thought of the people dying there in the rubble. Again she was reminded of her own experiences in the air-shelter three years ago. She remembered the oppressive heat and the terror hanging in the air…heard again the screams of that child that had been so terrified. Tom had had that feeling now for years. She wondered if anyone could fault him for the twisted view he had on humanity, after what he had been forced to endure for years, which she had only got a glimpse of that horrid night.

Reading on, Minerva saw that there had been raids by Grindelwald in Spain and Italy, leaving several Muggleborn families dead. She gulped, but when she wanted to read on, a hand pulled the newspaper away.

"Stop it."

That was Tom. Minerva looked up from her breakfast to find him looming over her.

"It's no good if you keep reading that," he told her firmly. "You can't change anything, now can you? So stop it."

Minerva, although she knew that being informed beat the alternative any day, finally smiled at him shakily. "It's a good thing we have a ball tomorrow," she said finally.

* * *

**Hogwarts, March 21****st****, 1943**

To say that Minerva saw much of the ball that night would have been a lie. The Great Hall was beautifully decorated and everyone had dressed up quite prettily, but Minerva could not enjoy it. She gave Professor Dumbledore a distracted nod, while waiting quite anxiously for the clock to turn nine. Poppy came along with William to the table Minerva was sitting at, looking her up and down.

"Good god, Minerva," she exclaimed. "What has got you so nervous? You look pretty though today. Where is Tom?"

Minerva looked at Poppy, who had also taken out her nicest green dress that evening which complimented her russet locks, and replied: "You look very nice, too, Poppy. " Without replying to the question, her eyes found the huge clock hanging on the opposite wall again. It was five minutes to nine pm.

"I have to go," she told Poppy quite abruptly and got up.

"What? Where?" Poppy stared at her as if she had gone mad. "What am I supposed to say? When will you return?"

"Soon," Minerva shot back, already on her way to the outside. "Just tell them I am not feeling too well…And don't worry about me."

She left the Great Hall without looking back once, unaware of Poppy's concerned eyes and foremost Professor Dumbledore's bemused and worried look that followed her as she slipped out of the door.

The landscape presented itself to her that night like something alive. The high grass muted her steps and came nearly up to her waist the closer she came to the Forbidden Forest. For a long, pain-stricken moment, she remembered another night much like this one and the wolf that had attacked her when she had been in her cat form- he had just been one of those unsightly creatures this Forest held so many of.

Hidden in the shadows of the imposing firs, black in the quiet of the night, was Tom. His pale face was the only thing she could see because the shadows swallowed everything else, but when she came closer she could see that he was wearing black dress robes with a black bow-tie. His wavy dark hair was in his usual fashionable side parting and he smiled wryly down at her, the midnight eyes softening and the smile widening as he regarded her.

"Tom…"

He approached and took her hand. "No need to sound so intimidated, my dear," he told her wryly, then looked her up and down, taking in the blue dress that swished gently around her knees and her black hair that she wore in a long braid that day.

"You look beautiful. Now come on."

Minerva bit her lip. Her pride didn't want to make her admit it, but she admitted it anyway. "Do we have to go into the forest? It's such a dark night," she told him hesitatingly, "and it reminds me of that night when I was attacked."

Tom squeezed her hand in a reassuring manner. "Well," he said matter-of-factly, "no need to worry now. You are with me and no-one would ever dare to attack me."

"Setting the stakes a little high, are we?" Minerva sniped, some of her courage restored, but Tom merely smirked and ignored her. "It's not really a dark night," he continued, "but the clouds cover the light of the moon." With a wave of his hand, the clouds themselves seemed to part to make way for the pale light of the moon.

"Manipulating the weather?" Minerva gasped. "That's wandless magic at its best! Even Dumbledore-" Tom scowled and she bit back a smirk. Even though she was truly impressed by this feat of magic, she couldn't resist ribbing him on a bit. His reactions concerning any mention of the name Dumbledore were always quite foreseeable.

"If you want to, I could teach you," Tom offered suddenly.

She eyed him warily. "And what do you want in return?"

He smirked again. "For you," he said huskily just next to her ear, "I would do it without expecting something in return."

Minerva suppressed a doubtful reply. She did know her Tom, calculating and rational as he was. Expecting him to do something even for her without him wanting something in return was highly unlikely. Sometimes she wished he had a sense for romantics.

"Don't be such a sceptic, Minerva," Tom sighed impatiently and started to lead her into the forest past a few bushes that gleamed silvery in the moonlight. "A kiss will suffice," he added and there was mischief in his voice, before he bent down and pressed a short yet possessive kiss to her lips. "Are you not curious," he continued, when he released her, "why it is that I led you here tonight?"

"I figured the Slytherin torture chambers are all occupied today, so I decided to let you surprise me," Minerva replied dryly, referring to a quip he had once made to her, years ago, when they had still barely known each other. Tom's quiet chuckle told her that he did remember that incident.

* * *

They walked on in silence for a few moments through the fog-covered darkness, each lost in their own thoughts, and Minerva's thoughts strayed to her father, as they did so often these days. Bushes and trees seemed to form forbidding shapes of frightening animals next to the narrow path they were walking on and Minerva shivered, as a cold breeze rushed past her, that came from seemingly nowhere.

The forest was silent, but too silent- and the sound of twigs crackling underneath their feet was the only sound audible. Another shiver raced down her spine.

She opted to divert herself from thoughts of her father and her own bad feeling about this forest by making conversation- even if of course that did not keep her thoughts from the subject- and said conversationally: "So what did you do to Dolohov that day?"

Tom gave her an appraising look. He shrugged, appearing unperturbed. "Nothing he didn't deserve," he declared rather apathetically.

"He didn't do anything to me, you know," Minerva pointed out firmly.

Tom merely chuckled. "Oh, he did. And he tried to undermine my authority."

"Your authority?" she cried, disbelievingly. "Tom…" With a sick feeling in her stomach, she recalled that one time she had stumbled in on one of his "meetings". "What exactly is it that you want?"

"What I want?" Tom asked, actually stopping and spinning around to face her. "Everything," he breathed and his voice echoed ominously through the silence of the forest. "I want everything. But not without you…"

When he approached, Minerva took a step back. "You might have sworn me that you would never hurt innocents," she challenged, "But what are your minions doing?"

For a moment, annoyance flashed across his handsome features. Then he smirked in a twisted manner. "I can't speak for them, that's true," he admitted, "but they only do as I say. But not all is as horrible as your wonderful Dumbledore makes it out to be."

"I don't really have a choice, now do I?" Minerva asked tightly, feeling her wrist burn. "Besides, it is not as if Professor Dumbledore were the epitome of goodness himself…" she mumbled, quieter.

"Oh?" Tom inquired, a dangerous edge to his voice although he was perfectly polite. "When did that change?"

Minerva pursed her lips and ignored him. "Neither are you," she pointed out.

"No, I am not," Tom admitted easily, "but the difference between that old fool and me is that I love you and I would never do anything to harm you. Can you say that about him?"  
Seeing the fault in his logic, Minerva snorted. "But he has no plans to take over the world."

Tom chuckled humourlessly. "How often do I have to tell you, Minerva, I don't have any plans of that kind." His chuckles became louder, true amusement colouring his voice then. "That pure-blood supremacy nonsense? Why, look at those inbred fools! Do you truly think I would ever defend short-sighted views like that? But I need their assistance for now. No, Minerva, no."

He continued on the path they had trod until now with quick steps and Minerva had no choice but follow him deeper into that impenetrable mass of fog and dark trees.

"Tom," she called. "Tom, I don't want to go any farther…"

Tom stopped and held his hand out for her to take it. "Don't be afraid of the dark, Minerva," he said slowly. "It's rejected by so many. But you mustn't be so prejudiced. There is beauty in the dark."

With those words, he waved his wands and the long, thread-like twigs of the weeping willow standing right in front of them on the path parted to form a sort of natural tunnel.

Minerva gathered all her Gryffindor courage and followed Tom- and actually gasped at the sight that lay before her.

A small pond with waves rippling in the slight breeze that had sprung up greeted her. Around it, white flowers sprinkled the ground, interspersed with mossy spots. The trees that stood around the pond seemed less intimidating than the ones they had passed on their way there. They were tall and silent and their formation in a circle around the small clearing seemed as if they were guarding the peaceful sense of solitude handing over this place.

When she gazed upwards, she could see the starry sky, surrounded by the treetops like a frame. The night was clear and she could even make out a few constellations she recognised from her Astronomy Lessons. The sheer beauty of this place nearly made her stumble, but Tom put an arm around her waist to keep her from falling.

Still in awe, Minerva bent down to examine the white flowers at her feet. Their calyxes seemed to mimic the shapes of stars and they were unlike any flowers she had ever seen in the wilderness, for their colour was such a translucent white that they truly seemed as if they were made of glass.

"Star flowers," Tom told her softly. "They never wilt. And they never die." Some other, hidden meaning was in his voice, but Minerva was not sure which it was.

"This all," she said quietly, "This all is so beautiful. How did you find it?"

"For those who are willing to look closely, the world is in turn willing to offer its secrets," Tom replied mysteriously. "You would have never expected something so beautiful, as you called it, amidst this dark and ghastly forest, would you?"

Minerva shook her head silently. Tom's dark gaze was almost hypnotising as he fixed it on her. "You have to look closer," he insisted. "There is no dark and there is no light. There is a balance somewhere between good and evil. It's just being. Not being good or bad, just being. That's why I admire these flowers. They just are. And they never wither away."

Without allowing her the chance to reply, he took her hand. "Now come on," he mumbled, "it is a ball today, isn't it? And you should dance on a ball."

So they danced, silently, slowly, there in the peaceful quiet of the moonlit glade, spinning around and swaying to the beat of a non-existent music.

On that evening, Minerva fell in love with Tom all over again. He was genuine that evening, warm even, and she could not find anything insincere about him when he told her that he loved her and only her. He was twisted and dark and she knew it, but neither could she help herself. Professor Dumbledore's warnings, the things she knew about Tom, his twisted views- all that seemed to disappear and melt away that evening.

And when Tom carefully disentangled her tight braid to run his fingers through her black locks, Minerva let him.

He hesitated then, for a second, looking at her as if asking for permission. When she stayed still he very carefully ran a finger along the contours of her face.

Minerva shivered, but when he pushed the wide strap of her dress over her shoulder, she allowed him to do so. She trembled underneath his touch.

The kiss he pressed to her bare shoulder burned like fire and after that, he touched his lips very lightly to hers, whispering: "I love you, Minerva."

Tom went farther that night than anyone before him, but Minerva did not regret one second of it.

There was just Tom and Minerva - Minerva and Tom.

...

And if loving Tom was wrong she didn't care.

* * *

_tbc_


	23. 1943 Part II

_Hi everyone! I am very much looking forward to hearing what you'll say about this chapter! But first, thanks for your absolutely awesome reviews, **Vylette, iviscrit, Sarafina** (no worries, I am happy you are back :)),** ChainsawNyan **(your review made me smile, and I can totally understand being immat__ure ;D and no, English is most certainly not my first language- you'd immediately know if you heard me speaking it, lol) **Emily, Mara **and of course **Sherbet! **You guys are the best!_

_And now...we come to an update I am rather proud of :D Really curious about your reactions! Edit: Thank you very much, **Valentina,** for pointing out that mistake :) !  
_

_Sachita :-)_

* * *

**Chapter Twenty-Two**_  
_

**Forbidden Forest, Scotland, April 5****th****, 1943 **

A lone girl in a blue coat, hands buried in its deep pockets, walked along the paths of the Forbidden Forest that seemed to her as if she was walking into a surrealistic dream scene. Winter had left already and spring was heavy in the air: there, in the damp mist that rose up from the bushes and shone golden in the early sunshine; here, in the quiet birdsong among the old trees.

On some days life and everyone in it choked her and she needed to get away for some time. Away from school, her responsibilities- away even from Tom- or should she say, especially from Tom? His possessiveness smothered her at times.

Minerva wandered along the half-hidden paths that led her deeper into the forest. Surrounding her was the heavy, rain-damp smell of the old oak-trees and beeches.

On a clearing, she stopped and marvelled at the patches of sunlight that lit up the mossy ground.

When she craned her neck, she found herself gazing up along the bark of gargantuan trees that must have been there long before her birth. At the tops, the little structures of the branches nearly seemed to become one with the milky blue sky.

She turned to her right and nearly gasped at the spectacle taking place right in front of her.

From the treetop down to its roots that sunk into the mossy ground the entire tree seemed to be glowing, sparkling, gleaming in the spring light. The sun's rays were caught on its orange-hued leaves, illuminating them like dancing flames caught upon the dark branches that were covered with dew drops.

The dew drops on the other hand gleamed like a world of rainbows captured in a myriad of glass shards. Webs crafted by miniscule artists were also made visible in an ethereal golden glow, spanning across the ground. Minerva marvelled at them and at this moment and then stepped into that magical world, closing her eyes to hold her face into the warm sunlight.

It was silent, no birdsong could be heard; only the crackling of branches and leaves, there in the sunlit solitude.

And for a moment, all was perfect.

Life was the most beautiful thing she had ever encountered.

* * *

**Slytherin Common Room, Hogwarts, April 20****th****, 1943**

No attacks had happened on any students the last few months and so Hogwarts had returned to a state of normalcy. The mandrake draught was said to be ready soon and neither Minerva nor anyone else had heard talks of the school being closed anymore.

Antonin Dolohov was reclining on the green velvet couch standing in front of the fireplace. The roaring flames of the fire illuminated the angry red welts on his neck and threw odd shadows on them.

The welts had become part of him; in fact they had been there ever since November. When he asked, he explained them with a bad rash, but in reality it was a permanent mark for he had dared approaching Minerva McGonagall in a rather suggestive manner last November. Antonin smiled a little twistedly when he thought of it and then his smile faded as his concentration returned to the book in his hands.

He was holding a small, leather-bound volume in front of him, mossy green eyes hushing over the lines avidly.

The silent spectator behind him watched him thoughtfully, taking in the welts marring the white neck and finally the book's title printed firmly on the cover in bold golden letters.

"Reading Blake's poetry, Antonin?"

The spectator glided smoothly around the couch to sit down gracefully next to the aforementioned.

Antonin didn't appear to be overly startled, but then he never was, having a sharp sense of perception that nearly rivalled the spectator's one.

"Tom," he acknowledged evenly, without the slight trace of fear that Abraxas's voice always held when he addressed him- never with "Tom" of course, but with "My Lord". Antonin was the only one among his followers whom he allowed to challenge him thus. And challenge him, he did.

"Why, because the man was a Muggle?" he asked in a voice dripping with irony, watching Tom calculatingly underneath his raven-feather-like brows.

For a moment, Tom remained dangerously still, but then he threw his head back and laughed.

"You should have been in Gryffindor, Antonin," he remarked, "but don't question my means."

Antonin, was, of course, referring to Tom's own hypocrisy- Tom utilised the views of the old pureblood families in order to gain power, not because he necessarily believed in them himself, although it could safely be said that Tom was anything but fond of Muggles. Antonin, perceptive as he was, had of course recognised that long ago. Maybe that was why Tom kept him so close at his side- if a dog was on a tight leash, he might not lash out others, yet he would also feel favoured by his Master. Antonin wasn't that different- he might hide it well, but Tom knew that like all the others, he was also craving for Tom's approval. And Tom didn't mind for Antonin had proven to be a worthy interlocutor time and time again.

Antonin bowed his head in a rather submissive manner, exposing the welts on his neck again. Tom gazed at them silently and then waved his wand in a rather careless manner, coolly uttering "Episky".  
The welts seemed to melt away and disappear. Antonin's hand instinctively wandered to his neck and for the first time there was amazement in his eyes, as he levelled a questioning look at Tom.

"I do not blame you for being drawn to Minerva," Tom explained shortly, "as she is the most passionate creature you'll ever meet, and," he added, "you read William Blake's poetry, which is characterised by passion and feeling in every line. Are you maybe becoming whimsical, Antonin?" There was bite in that last question.

"So you condemn passion?" Antonin inquired.

"Passion;" Tom said dispassionately and made a disparaging hand movement, "is all fine and well, but it has to be channelled in the rightful places, not wasted in a careless, improvident manner. Passion can only work if you have a level head and a cool mind, otherwise you might get lost in the heat of your own temper."

Antonin frowned a little, but he remained silent.

"You will have ample time for passion," Tom promised with a wry little smile, "as I do have grand plans which can only be achieved with passion."

"Controlled passion," Antonin interspersed.

Tom's eyes glittered in a worrisome light. "Control, Antonin," he said shortly, "is everything. And I will get nowhere with hot-headedness."

With that he got up. "And what about Minerva?" Antonin challenged.

Tom paused. "Minerva," he said so quietly that it was nearly inaudible but that did not take away the dangerous edge to his words, "Minerva means more to me than I would ever tell _you_, Antonin, but rest assured, for no-one will come between me and my vision."

With that, he went away. Antonin stayed where he was, slightly shaken, as he was always after an encounter with Tom though he would have never admitted to it; his feathers slightly ruffled after that reprimand, which that conversation had, in an indirect way, been; but also elated, for he knew, he was finally forgiven.

* * *

**Hogwarts, May 15****th****, 1943**

"Minerva! Minerva!"

Irritated, Minerva turned around to see who was calling her in such a hurried manner. It was James Taylor.

"James," She acknowledged, wondering what their resident gossip and joker was up to now. "What is it?"

"Has Poppy already told you?"

Minerva eyed him with quiet annoyance. "What are you talking about?"

James's eyes widened rather dramatically. "Well, I shall be off then," he announced, "I shan't even dream of passing on that message to you! Not if I want to keep my head."

And he was gone, disappeared into a sideways corridor. Minerva looked after him and shook her head.

She did not find out what was going on until that evening though.

Hues of red and gold painted the sky as the early summer sunset revealed all its splendour. Amber light also fell through the high windows in wide slates, illuminating the faces of the students in an ethereal light. Minerva held her face into the sun; breathed deeply in, and for a long moment just enjoyed being alive.

"Minerva!," someone exclaimed. Turning, she saw Poppy's anxious brown eyes.

"What is the matter, Poppy?" Minerva asked, alarmed, and, seeing the curious looks of a few young Hufflepuffs, quickly drew her friend into an empty classroom.

"He kissed me when I was waiting in front of the Great Hall and William saw it and I didn't mind," Poppy blurted out in a rush.

"Stop, stop," Minerva commanded, holding a slender hand up. "Who kissed you?"

"Antonin Dolohov," Poppy wailed, burying her face in her hands. The russet locks had come undone from her tight bun and were now dancing merrily around her face.

Minerva blinked; she hadn't expected that. "And you didn't mind?"

Unshed tears shone in her friend's eyes. "I love William, don't get me wrong. But Antonin was so passionate and he quoted Goethe at me…I didn't initiate that kiss, but I did nothing to fight it either. And I know it was wrong! I do! But I- "she broke off with a low, miserable sound.

"Maybe an act of defiance," Minerva mused, "seeing that your parents want you to marry William as soon as possible and William wants to put you into a golden cage." She shook her head. "No, Poppy, I haven't said anything because I thought you dearly wanted this….and I would have supported you, but you are too independent to be put into a cage."

Poppy stared at her with wide brown eyes. "What do you suggest?" she asked faintly. "Dolohov?"

Minerva laughed shortly. "No," she said wryly, "Antonin is too much like my Tom, and trust me, that is more trouble than it is worth on most days." Her look brushed shortly over her wrist, but when she saw Poppy looking at it, too, she hastily drew her sleeve over it. "No, Poppy…" she put a gentle hand on her shoulder- odd to be in the position to reassure Poppy for once, for normally it was much the other way round-and squeezed reassuringly.

"You shouldn't feel obliged to do all your parents tell you to do. This is your life after all. And you'll always have me."

Poppy nodded, her eyes watery, and sniffed once. "I will have to think about all this," she said slowly. "But- what about Dolohov?"

"Do you like him?" Minerva inquired carefully.

Poppy laughed nervously and tucked a reddish strand of hair behind her ear. "I don't even know him," she replied shakily. "I suppose I- well- he's all kinds of twisted, I guess- but handsome and passionate- and I –oh, but what about William? It hasn't been good between us for a long time, but I don't know and-oh, what am I to do?"

"I could talk to Dolohov for you if you like," Minerva offered.

"You would do that for me?" Poppy peaked up.

"Yes, I'd ask for the why, if you want me to…"

"I'd be much obliged," her friend sighed, before straightening up and giving Minerva a weak smile. "Let's go to dinner, eh? Those bloody men shan't spoil our appetite."

Minerva chuckled and allowed her friend to lead her towards the Great Hall.

A few days later, she happened to run into Dolohov in front of the library after she had just finished several hours of excessive study for her final exams at the end of this school year.

"Dolohov," she acknowledged coolly. "McGonagall," he shot back.

Before he could go anywhere else, she caught a hold of his sleeve. His green eyes widened fractionally, but his usual unreadable expression soon covered that slip.

"What do you want?"

"Charming as usual," Minerva bit back.

"I do what I can," he replied wittily.

"Fine," Minerva sighed, straightening up. "Without the pleasantries then. This is about Poppy."

Antonin drew up to his full height- and he had a good head on her- nonchalantly raising a black eyebrow and reclining against the wall behind him in a deliberate casual manner: "Yes?" he asked condescendingly, the nearly imperceptible accent that always accompanied his speech becoming slightly more pronounced.

"Well, what are your intentions?"

He made an odd sound that resembled a hoarse dog barking; and only after a few moments did Minerva realise it was sarcastic laughter. "Aren't you always direct?" he drawled, amused. "She's an attractive Lady. Witty and intelligent, too. I like her. That's why I kissed her."

"But she's a Gryffindor!" Minerva protested.

"Dear Merlin," Antonin snorted rather un-gentlemanlike, "this comes from Tom's girlfriend! Please tell me you don't think this constitutes a real hindrance. Unlike many of your compatriots I do not happen to share the same House animosities. Are there any other doubts of yours that we should address or was that all?" The last part was heavy with irony.

Minerva looked at him closely for long minutes, but there was nothing in his blank expression that spoke of other things. "Very well," she growled finally, "I shall be watching you. Don't hurt her."

Antonin bowed sarcastically, and then straightened up, an oddly serious look in his eyes. "She has passion," he stated, "just like you. And I've always admired passion. Tom is not passionate about anything but about you. Do not disappoint him either." When he said those last words, he was very close to her, nearly breathing down her neck. Minerva jumped back and Antonin smiled twistedly at her expression. "Thank you for this conversation, Miss McGonagall," he told her formally. "It was most enlightening."

With that, he swept around the corner, leaving Minerva standing there feeling quite unsettled.

* * *

**Head Girl Chambers, Hogwarts, May 20****th****, 1943**

"Your friend Antonin carries a torch for Poppy," Minerva remarked casually, drawing a line on Tom's bare back. He seemed to melt perfectly into the white sheets of the bed, his lithe form stretched leisurely out over the covers. Tom mumbled something into the pillow, the expressive eyes closed and the thick dark lashes fluttering appreciatively as Minerva resumed her caresses. A small smile curled the corners of his mouth and she found it secretly adorable.

"What do you think of this?" Minerva pressed on.

Tom murmured something else that was completely unintelligible and lost to the pillow. His dark hair stood up in odd directions as he shifted to the other side.

"Would His Worship grace me with a reply?" She couldn't hide the smile this time.

Tom groaned and flopped on his back, yawning, and scratching his bare chest before blinking sleepily up at her, his blue eyes only half-opened. "Yes?"

"Antonin and Poppy," Minerva stated.

"So what?" Tom was still on the verge of sleep, his eyelids fluttering as he blinked rapidly. The candle on the nightstand next to the bed threw flickering shadows on the wall. They were in Minerva's Head girl rooms and Tom seemed a little misplaced among all the red and golden, but a glance to the side showed his Slytherin robes hanging very orderly over the chair in the middle of the room. One couldn't really miss it. Minerva suspected him of exactly that motive actually.

"What do you think of it?"She repeated impatiently.

"Let them be…"When Minerva wanted to give up in exasperation and allow him to succumb to sleep, Tom cracked his eyes open a fraction. "He is quite a hothead," he said coolly, "but so is she. I don't think it would be that bad of an idea."

"Well, I disagree," Minerva replied firmly. "He is too much like you."

"The Lady disagrees," Tom mocked with an amused glint in the midnight eyes. "And there I daresay I am not of your opinion. He is not like me. No one can be like me."

"Oh!" Minerva exclaimed in frustration. "Not convinced of yourself at all, are you, Tom?"

Tom raised a nonchalant eyebrow. "It's called stating facts, my dear Minerva."

"He calls you Tom…" she went on, still deliberately casual, ignoring his remark, placing a few strategic kisses on his collarbone. Tom shut his eyes against the distraction for a moment, but when he opened them again they were attentive. "That does happen to be my name," he said rather darkly.

"Oh, but your other followers don't seem to call you Tom," Minerva continued, acid dripping from her words. "They refer to you like the Muggles do to their nobles."

Maybe she had meant to provoke him with her words, but Tom only smirked. "Comparing me to Muggle nobles, Minerva?" He made a disapproving sound. "You'll have to do better than that." He let his gaze wander over her and the sheets she had drawn to her chest, suddenly cold.

"Come here." Minerva allowed him to tug her down to lie next to him underneath the sheets. "Antonin questions me," Tom said finally, "And that is a good thing. A man is unwise if he does not allow himself to be criticised, for he will get lost in his own self-confidence all too easily. And I am not foolish."

Minerva merely sighed at that explanation; Tom never did anything without having some ulterior motive after all. How could she have thought this to be any different?

"My mother sent a letter yesterday," she stated after a few minutes of silence, deliberately changing topics. "She wants the union between William and me to take place this year."

Some of his usual wry humour back, a corner of Tom's mouth tilted upwards. "I do hope you said no, unless you wish to become lovely Yaxley's wife and become the mother of his children, which I imagine, would have that same unlucky shade of hair reminiscent of a dog's odoriferous leftovers…"

"Tom!" Minerva scolded lightly, but she couldn't hold back a chuckle. "No," she mumbled, "I am seventeen now. She can't do anything. I sent an application to the Ministry of Magic…to the Department of Mysteries."

Seeing that she was silent, Tom inquired. "Well?"

"They took me on," she replied slowly, twirling a strand of hair around her finger. "I would move to London, "she continued awkwardly, not looking at him."If you want to, you could come over sometime during the holidays."

Tom was silent as well for a few moments, but when she dared look at him, her face burning from a combination of embarrassment and something else, that made anticipatory tingles race down her spine, he was smiling. "I would love to, Minerva," he replied smoothly and kissed the crook of her neck. The spot felt as if it was on fire and Minerva smiled at him rather giddily. "But for now," Tom added and stifled a yawn, "let's get some sleep."

"You are right," she admitted finally, suddenly tired as well and closed her eyes, snuggling in next to him. "The morning will be there soon…But," she added, "back to the topic of Poppy- I do think it bears watching. I have a feeling Antonin holds some twisted views and I don't want her to be in a situation that she can't get out of anymore. I don't want her to bind herself to a possibly dangerous man for maybe forever…that would be foolish…" She trailed off and her breaths evened out after a while.

Tom, propped up on an elbow, watched her delicate features for a while in the flickering light of the candle on the nightstand. "But Minerva," he whispered with a slow smile, "haven't you been foolish as well? Haven't you bound yourself to a man like that, too?"

He eventually closed his eyes and drifted off to sleep, the smirk staying on his handsome features. What he didn't hear, however, was Minerva's soft reply, long minutes after his words: "I know that I have been foolish, Tom, but I love you. So what I can do but continue being foolish?"

* * *

**Hogwarts June 13****th****, 1943**

"There," Poppy said with a satisfied smile, "you will look beautiful with these."

Minerva glanced up to see Poppy holding up two blue-and-bronze ribbons. Myrtle was standing right in front of her, looking apprehensive. Minerva felt another gaze on them and she quickly saw that it was Antonin Dolohov, sitting in a corner with some of the other Slytherin Sixth-Years, doing their homework as all students in this room were required to do, but as there was no teacher present at the moment most were doing everything but their homework.

Minerva had tried to understand what was between Poppy and Antonin by now- although Poppy had assured her of there being nothing, looks with heavy meaning passed between those two from time to time. Although Poppy had never officially broken up with William, the two of them seemed to be finished, which had earned Poppy an angry howler from her mother who had doubtlessly heard about it from William. Poppy hadn't seemed overly upset when receiving that howler, though. She had just sent another look over to the Slytherin table at dinner that day and had received a heavy look from Antonin in return.

Minerva finally shook her head and decided to herself that she didn't need to understand this. If Poppy wanted to tell her about it, then she would. Looking back at Myrtle, she saw that Poppy was almost finished with Myrtle's new hairdo.

Myrtle was silent, her face shaped in an O as Poppy gently affixed the blue ribbons into her hair, parting it to make two pigtails out of the brown mass.

"I only wish I had a more interesting hair colour," Myrtle sighed, eyeing Poppy's russet locks. "Like you."

"Oh," Minerva interjected, "you wouldn't want to have Poppy's hair colour. When autumn comes, she is frequently mistaken with a tree or the other."  
It had been a weak joke, but Poppy had rarely laughed in the last few months and now she gave a small, indignant laugh. "Why thank you, my dear friend. At least my hair doesn't make me look like I don't have a head when I walk about at night."

"And I have hair that looks like chocolate," Myrtle giggled, "Soon enough I won't have any if people get wind of it!"

Minerva and Poppy joined in her laugh as they imagined people crowding around Myrtle, each trying to get a piece of her hair. It was ridiculous, of course, but for once they enjoyed being silly.

Myrtle tugged at her pigtails. "Do you think Jonathan Taylor will look twice at me now?"

Minerva thought of her fellow Head and although she knew that Jonathan would never look twice at a girl like Myrtle, she didn't want to dash her hopes. "Of course," she said with a gentle smile and Myrtle beamed.

"I'll be off," Myrtle then announced and got up with a smile. When she left the classroom, she was skipping.

Poppy turned to Minerva with a smile. "She's really growing up, isn't she?"

Minerva nodded distractedly for her attention had been captured by that vile Slytherin girl, Olive Hornby, who had come up to talk to Myrtle at the threshold of the room. There was a nasty expression on the plump face of the girl as she tugged at Myrtle's new ribbons. Myrtle's eyes abruptly filled with tears and she ran from the room, crying loudly.

Minerva wanted to rise to go after her, but Poppy held her back. "No," she said firmly, "Myrtle is far too sensitive for her own good and a part of growing up is learning how to deal with things like that on your own. We can't help her all the time, now can we?"

As much as she hated it, Minerva had to agree with that assessment.

A strange feeling in the pit of her stomach, she gazed at the now empty doorframe. The cold night that was creeping in from the outside made her shudder, but she brushed the feeling off and stared at her essay. There was nothing wrong after all.

* * *

**Second-Floor Girls' Bathroom, Long past curfew on June 13th, 1943**

The hand was limp and cold. It was less than a hand now, more like a piece of flesh.

Mere matter.

There was no will attached to the hand anymore, no greater force behind it that directed its movements. Thin blue veins crisscrossed over the back of the hand and disappeared into a pale arm. Two thick veins defined the slim wrist, but there was no pulse pounding through those lifelines now.

He followed the arm connected to the hand with his eyes to where it disappeared into the black cloth of the school uniform. The black fabric had ridden up to the elbow. He followed the line of the arm farther in a dispassionate manner, until it blended into a slim shoulder, which, in turn, gave way for a neck bent at a rather unnatural angle…

The girl's thick brown hair had been tied back into pigtails and the ribbons that held them were of Ravenclaw bronze and blue. The glasses of the girl were askew, just dangling off her nose, the slight frame smashed at one side. The eyes behind the glasses did not need those anymore. They were dull, glazed, oddly faded- and Tom knew now why Muggles liked to term them as _broken_.

So that what was death looked like? Tom had seen death before; in London, too often, really in the times of the Blitz, but he had never been the one to cause the death of a human being.

Billy Stubbs's rabbit had struggled underneath his bare hands when he had squeezed the life out of it. Myrtle had not struggled. She had not even screamed. She had just fallen over like a puppet with cut strings- one of those puppets of the puppeteer that he had seen at the fair as a small boy.

Death was surprisingly noiseless, he noted clinically. Death was rather anticlimactic. Strange.

How easy it had been.

But he shouldn't ponder that now, he reminded himself. It was time for the ritual.

The spells he knew by heart, having poured over the books containing them in the flickering light of a candle at the Muggle Orphanage for entire nights. He withdrew his diary and his wand and placed the diary on the ground.

He raised his wand, pointed it at the diary and then he began chanting the spells.

But as soon as he chanted them, he had only time for a brief feeling of devastation, before pain shot through him in a way he had never known before.

It engulfed his entire being and seemed to slice him apart. He went to his knees and found that they couldn't hold him up.

Vaguely, he was aware of his screaming and sobbing, fingernails digging into the stone until they were bleeding. He was writhing on the floor, shouting himself hoarse, sobbing meaningless words, when he slowly found back to himself.

Sharp pain screamed through him again and agony shuddered through him, as tears fell unchecked from his eyes. He sobbed without knowing why he was crying, shivering uncontrollably. His teeth were chattering and his whole body was trembling, but he felt feverish at the same time. Sweat was sliding down his brow as a thousand hot knives seemed to be attacking him simultaneously.

Again, he howled in pain, almost an inhuman sound.

Then all went dark.

Much, much later, he came back to himself and he lay there for a long time before he slowly attempted to rise.

Crawling on all fours, trembling all over, he pocketed the diary. His look returned to Myrtle's hand then, so cold and white against the marble tiles, and he gagged.

The cold air that wafted in from somewhere made him shiver, soaked in sweat as he was.

When he dragged his tall frame up, he had only one coherent thought, for, in a very odd way, he felt as if she was his only chance for salvation.

Minerva.

He needed Minerva.

Now.


	24. 1943 Part III

_Hi everybody! This is a rather short update, but I hope you like it. I really wanted to update before the New Year's Celebration. See it as a belated Christmas gift from me to you. Tom is rather besides himself in this chapter, but keep in mind, the guy just created a Horcrux :D __This chapter was really hard to write, so please bear with me :) __Since everyone seems to like Antonin Dolohov (me included), we will be seeing a lot more of him in the next updates. _

_ Thank you so much for your marvellous reviews, **Vylette, Valentina, Emily, Mara, iviscrit, Sherbet, The Magic of the Night** and **Sarafina** ( I took a look at Gonger, too. Ironically, it's about a small boy who was killed in the years of the Second World War, so the boy is from Tom's era. However, he returns decades later as vengeful ghost and wants to get revenge on the people who killed him and their descendants. That's the brief summary since you told me you didn't understand a word. I think there's an English version out there though. Very creepy movie! I feel honoured that you thought of me though because it's a German movie :)!) _

_You are all wonderful! _

_I hope you had great holidays and I also hope you have a wonderful New Year's Celebration and a great year 2012! My very Best Wishes for the New Year from me to all of you!_

_Sachita ;)_

* * *

**Chapter Twenty-Three**

**Hogwarts, June 13th, 1943**

_When he dragged his tall frame up, he had only one coherent thought, for, in a very odd way, he felt as if she was his only chance for salvation._

_Minerva._

_He needed Minerva._

_Now._

Each step was agony. He barely knew where he was going, but neither could he stop, nor could he allow himself respite, for she was his only chance to stop this burning.

This burning, this burning _pain_.

He had to keep going. And so he took the next step.

* * *

"It's a pity you'll move to London. We'll see so little of each other, for I'll be remaining at Hogwarts."

Minerva put her teacup down with a clatter and her face broke into a genuine smile.

"It's done? You said yes to the position as an intern? So you'll be working here together with Madam Yuhe? Oh Poppy, dear Poppy, that's grand!" She caught her friend's hands in her own. "I am so happy for you."

"Thank you," Poppy beamed and continued, but Minerva could not listen, for her gaze strayed to the pale crescent moon being obstructed by quickly-moving dark clouds. It was past curfew, and although Minerva usually stuck to the rules, she had allowed herself to indulge Poppy on this Sunday evening. But in that moment she felt as if Poppy immediately had to return to Gryffindor Common Room.

It felt as if something was going to happen soon.

Outside, the trees trembled in the breeze that had sprung up and their leaves shivered uncertainly in the night.

Minerva shivered.

"Poppy," she said, when her friend paused, the horrible feeling rising up in her belly making it impossible not to speak up, "Poppy, you need to go. It's past curfew…"

Poppy was looking at her, her eyes wide and questioning, the clatter of her teaspoon that she put back on the rim of her teacup suddenly terrifyingly loud in the silence.

Clearly, she wanted to know what was going on, but Minerva couldn't have explained the feeling growing inside of her. Her magic encountered it then and she reared back- the air around them was starting to crackle with another magic; one that Minerva knew intimately. And something was terribly wrong.

"Poppy," she repeated, an urgent note lacing her voice and Poppy seemed to sense the impending danger in that moment as well.

But then a harsh sound- not really a knock- made the oak door resound and Minerva knew it was too late. Her mind raced with frantic possibilities of what could have possibly happened and it was everything from an attack by Grindelwald to an accident and everything dire in the world. She withdrew her wand and got up carefully, making to go towards the door, yet said door flew open with a loud bang in that moment.

They were both startled badly.

Tom, ashen-faced and trembling, was standing in the door frame, staring at her. His eyes were flickering wildly and he held his wand in a shaking, pale hand. He was pale as death, his jet-black hair forming an unsettling contrast to his pallor, making the dark eyes stand out all the more. Sweat matted his hair, clung to his face, and coated his hands.

For a moment none of them moved.

Poppy next to Minerva seemed frozen in apprehension and incomprehension.

Minerva let her wand sink and approached with her hand outstretched, as if to soothe a wild animal. "Tom," she said very gently, "Tom, what happened?"

He reacted only after she had touched his arm, breaths fast and erratic, eyes filled with confusion.

"Minerva," his lips formed tonelessly, his wand still held in a white-knuckled grip.

"Minerva…" Her name tumbled from his lips then like a breath of relief and he startled her badly, when he dropped his wand, and more or less fell into her arms, shaking all over.

Poppy had risen finally, brown eyes assessing the situation worriedly. "I better get going," she whispered, passing Minerva with a quiet "Good-night."

Minerva nodded distractedly for her whole attention was on Tom, trembling like a leaf in her arms. His breaths came roughly, unevenly, hot on her flushed skin. With a nasty jolt Minerva realised that he was suppressing sobs.

"Tom," she stammered, all composure gone, "What is the matter?"

"This pain," he whispered in a cracked and raw voice that sounded as if he had spent hours screaming.

Minerva drew him closer, kissing the side of his neck, her heart beating in a fast staccato rhythm. Her Tom was suffering, right in front of her, and she had to find a solution. Fast.

"Tom, my love, tell me what's wrong. Shall we go to the hospital wing?"

"No," he croaked desperately, "no hospital. You know that Miss Cole took me there once? She told me it was to check whether I was mad and they came with needles and tied me to a chair and hurt me! I am not mad!" He stared at her with wild eyes, looking insane, rambling as he was. "I am not mad!"

"No, no," she told him hurriedly, "you are not mad. You are not. Please, Tom, please…" She grabbed his hand and tugged him after her to sit down on the bed. He offered little resistance, still shaking all over, his hands slippery with sweat.

"I never thought it would feel like this," he choked out, staring at nothing in particular. "It shouldn't feel like this!" Tom clutched at his chest then and it seemed as if he had difficulty breathing.

"We should go to see Madam Yuhe," Minerva advised, panicking.

"No, no," Tom moaned, "no." His teeth were chattering, and desperate to provide relief to him, Minerva pulled him to her side. He lay half across her lap, pressing her face into her shoulder, clutching her so tightly that she could barely breathe. All the while the shaking increased. Then the sobs came, broken, loud and pain-filled sounds that made tears course down Minerva's face, too.

"Please," she muttered desperately, "tell me what happened."

"He killed her!" Tom abruptly screamed, raising a face wet with tears and sweat. "He killed her and I hate him! **I HATE HIM!**"

His eyes turned cold and hard out of the sudden. She had never seen him look so angry.

"I am going to _kill_ him," he continued past his anguished sobs, yet his voice was cold and decisive. "I am going to kill him."

"Who?" Minerva asked urgently.

Tom seemed unable to reply still, his head hidden in her shoulder. Minerva, sensing that the worst part of the tempest had passed, moved a soothing hand to his hair and ran it through the raven locks.

"It feels as if I've been torn apart, Minerva," he mumbled brokenly. "It hurts so much. I never thought it would affect me like this."

Minerva mutely pressed a kiss to his head, stroking his back, waiting for him to go on. Finally, a lot more collected, he sat up and spoke, not looking at her.

"I found a book in the library, chronicling past divorces. The Ministry does that, fools that they are. My mother was a witch, my father a Muggle. I never told you, did I? He must have found out that she was a witch and he divorced her and threw her out when she was eight months pregnant. She came to Wool's Orphanage to give birth to me and afterwards she died because she was too weak, having had to beg to survive in the streets of London the weeks before. So you see, he killed her."

Tom was silent after his explanation, some of his composure regained, yet an unsteady light flickering in his midnight eyes.

"That is what made you so upset today?" Minerva asked, still holding on to him.

"I am going to find him," Tom replied coldly, "and I am going to kill him."

Minerva abruptly let go of him. "Tom!" she exclaimed in shock. "You can't!"

"Do you not think I could kill someone?" he interrupted with an odd glint in the eye, the cold voice and demeanour contrasting with the tear stains on his face and his bloodshot eyes.

Minerva stared at him and shivers crawled down her spine in an eerie manner. "I believe you could," she responded with a sick feeling, "but please, don't. He could have had such a wonderful son and he didn't take the chance. Why would you want to waste your life killing him? He doesn't deserve it."

She winced at the coldness of her own words, but she knew her Tom, and wrong as loving him might be, this was the only way to make him see reason. Tom Riddle had no morals and she knew that calling him on them would be pointless. But he did understand the use of utility.

Tom looked away for a long time and when he gazed again at her, his look had softened.

"I won't kill him," he said shortly. "I can't anyway, remember?" His midnight eyes strayed to his wrist and in that moment Minerva's own wrist started to burn like fire. She gasped and Tom looked at her. "Is it your wrist?" he questioned and when she nodded, he fetched his wand from where he had let it drop and levelled it wordlessly at her wrist. Immediately, cool spread out from the tip of the wand and surrounded Minerva's wrist. The burning was gone.

"Where did you learn that?"She asked in amazement.

"A healing spell I invented," Tom explained succinctly.

He put the wand away and seemed abruptly very weary, again clutching his chest. When he caught her look, he smiled bitterly and suddenly he did not seem like his cool, collected self, or like the earlier, desperate Tom or the cold one that Minerva had just seen minutes before. Instead the Tom that was gazing at her resembled a lonely child and an insurmountable sense of pity rose up in her, for she knew that the Orphanage must have been the loneliest place in the world for him.

"I just wanted a father, you know," was all he said quietly and Minerva's heart broke for him at his words. She tugged him back into her hold and they stayed like that for a long time, until Tom's regular breathing told her he had fallen asleep.

Minerva moved him into a more comfortable position on the bed and went to lie down next to him, afraid to let him out of her sight for some reason. She had never seen him like that, but secretly she felt honoured at his trust of her, for why else could he have told her? If she hadn't been so tired, she would have maybe thought of her wrist hurting and what it could have meant, but weariness all too soon made her succumb to sleep.

As soon as she fell asleep though, Tom opened his eyes half-way and looked at her silently. He had not meant for it to go that far or for himself to lose his composure like that. In fact he could not remember having shown so much weakness to anyone and he shuddered slightly. However, he had read Sigmund Freud and that Muggle psychiatrist's theories on grief and he knew that releasing grief was healthy, yet he had never applied that to himself.

The fact that his dirty Muggle father had left his pathetic mother right before his birth was nothing new to him. However, the _pain_ had been so great that he had not been able to think straight and he had utilised the only story that Minerva would believe as an explanation for his behaviour. Maybe not only for that; he had already thought further. It would also provide an alibi for today's activities. Minerva had helped him a lot more than she realised. A tiny smile pulled at the corners of Tom's mouth.

He would never forget that. And his Muggle father would not forget this day either, for his resolve had never been greater to finally act on the impulse that he had had so long.

He rubbed a pale hand across his chest in an absent-minded manner. The pain was nearly gone now, but he knew that he had to think of something that would make sure this would not happen again. Seven was indeed a powerful number, but if he crumbled to the ground screaming every time he made a Horcrux, he wouldn't go far, now would he?

Tom quirked a smile at his own thoughts.

Who had known becoming immortal could be so taxing?

* * *

**Hogwarts, June 14th, 1943**

Hagrid, the half-giant, was standing at the foot of the staircase and about to go to the Great Hall. Tom had seen Olive Hornby rush past him with a pale face no second before and he knew that he had to act fast.

This morning had been rather awkward in a way. After a visit to Myrtle's bathroom, having had a sudden bout of inspiration, Tom had returned to Minerva's chambers early in the morning when she had still been asleep. He hadn't been able to hold back a small smile at her tousled hair and a spark of something uncommonly warm had shot through him at her early morning appearance. He had suppressed the spark immediately; Tom Riddle had no place for such thoughts.

When she had woken up, though, the awkwardness had started. Minerva's looks had alternated between insecurity and so much love that it had nearly hurt Tom to look at her. It was too odd to have so much love aimed at him; he wasn't used to it. Tom cast the nagging thought away that Minerva meant too much to him for him to be ever free of ties of any kind, as he had long planned to be.

When the time was right, he would come to that. She was an asset and she could become his Queen, too. Who said that he needed to get rid of her? A tiny smile pulled at the corners of his mouth because he did indeed think that idea to be among his more brilliant ones.

Hagrid had nearly reached the Great Hall. Tom, his mind made up, strode towards him confidently, robes billowing past him.

"Mister Hagrid," he acknowledged sharply, "Good morning."

"T-Tom," Hagrid stammered, his large brown eyes widening in genuine fear. "Good morning."

"I trust your little secret still remains in the castle?" Tom drawled carelessly. The question was a purely rhetorical one; Hagrid's stupid golden heart forbade him to cast off his monstrous friend, the Acromantula, into the Forbidden Forest all by itself.

Hagrid stared at him, paralysed. "You haven't told anyone, have you?"

"No," Tom replied calmly, and then forced a smile. "You know I am only concerned. You are around that thing twenty-four hours a day, aren't you?`"

Hagrid bristled, drawing himself up to his full height. He had a good two heads on Tom, who was quite tall himself. "His name is Aragog, Tom. He's a living creature, not a thing."

Tom's smile wavered, but he forced his lips to stay frozen in the gentle curve. "Of course. My apologies. Aragog then. You surely do monitor him all day?"

"No," Hagrid admitted, casting his eyes down.

"No?" Tom gasped in false shock. "No," he repeated, firmer. "You don't? Surely you realise that is a foolish notion. It is a very dangerous dark animal that you keep in the school."

"But I have classes!" Hagrid protested. "And Aragog is fine by himself! He would never do anything to anybody!"

"I don't doubt it," Tom said gravely, resting a hand on Hagrid's arm. "But can you be sure? He is an animal and his instincts do take over from time to time. He doesn't even mean to be that way, you see. But you have to be careful." A spark of doubt shone in Hagrid's eyes and Tom knew that the seed was planted.

Wondering if he was overdoing it, he then rested a hand on Hagrid's shoulder- although he had to stand on his tiptoes for that. Part of him was grimacing at the humiliation.

"You see, Hagrid, I haven't had an easy life myself, and I endeavour to help others who are struggling as well. I am only trying to look out for you."

Hagrid nodded, admiration shining in his young eyes. "I know, Tom. Thank you. You are a kind person."

Tom nodded at him and stepped away. As soon as he had turned around, the smile slipped off his face. Vaguely, he wondered, whether his face might be frozen into a smiling grimace by now.

A terrible commotion ensued from the Great Hall then and someone was screaming.

"Silence!" Tom recognised Dumbledore's voice and he smirked in a twisted manner.

So it was beginning.

He stepped calmly into the Great Hall and came to stand besides Minerva, who was looking frantic. Tears were swamping her eyes.

"Oh Tom," she sobbed, "Have you heard? It's Myrtle."

Tom took her in his arms and schooled his face into a blank mask. "How terrible," he said. He did not care about the girl. She had been a necessary victim. But he hated to see Minerva cry.

Antonin then caught his eye over Minerva's head, nodding inconspicuously to something behind Tom. Tom stiffened and turned his head carefully to see Dumbledore approaching.

"Miss McGonagall," Dumbledore spoke strictly, "Mister Riddle."

Minerva acknowledged him shakily and Tom scowled. Could the old fool not see that Minerva was in no position to act upon her duties as Headgirl at the moment?

Dumbledore didn't seem to care about that. The look he shot Tom was frigid.

"Miss McGonagall, would you please join Headmaster Dippet and me in my office immediately? Mister Davies has already been notified. The Prefects will escort the Students back to the Common Rooms."

Tom was loath to let go of Minerva, who was composing herself.

"Mister Riddle," Dumbledore repeated and his voice was like ice. A small part of Tom was frightened of that man, but the bigger part of him knew that he had seen to all eventualities. No-one would ever know about his involvement in the girl's death. He had taken care of that.

"Please help escort the Slytherins to their Common Room."

"Of course, Professor," Tom spoke with a confident nod. He gave a last smile to Minerva and went off to collect the Slytherins among the frightened students in the Great Hall.

It had begun, indeed, and the ball was in Tom's court.

* * *

_tbc_


	25. 1943 Part IV

_Hello everyone! I am back :) Thank you very much for your kind reviews,** Emily, Vylette, The Magic of the Night, a, Kagami Kawaiine, iviscrit, Sherbet, Kate, Mara **and** ibelle!** You are awesome!_ _This chapter doesn't have much Tom/Minerva interaction and it was admittedly hard to write. Much of the dialogue has been taken from the movie. It's more of a bridge chapter until we can get back to our dear couple :) I hope you like it nonetheless. Now that I have holidays I promise to update soon again! _

_Sachita :-)**  
**_

* * *

**Chapter Twenty-Four**

**Hogwarts, June 14th, 1943**

Professor Dumbledore's office was silent and sun-dusted on that morning, when the solemn group of four entered it. With a flick of his wand, Professor Dumbledore conjured two high-backed chairs for Jonathan and Minerva to sit on, while Headmaster Dippet and he walked behind the great mahogany table to take their seats, giving the entire situation a feel of a courtroom hearing.

Unconsciously, Minerva crossed her arms. Her wrist was burning horribly and she resisted the urge to rub it, feeling Professor Dumbledore's sharp eyes on her. When she lifted her eyes she found that she was right. He was directly looking at her over the rims of his half-moon glasses and for once, there was only frigidity in those blue orbs. Feeling naked and defenceless, Minerva shivered and averted her eyes.

"Mister Davies, Miss McGonagall," Dippet began, his gravelly voice sounded older than usual, "we appreciate you coming here, knowing that the circumstances are dire…"

"Armando," Dumbledore interrupted, stroking his auburn beard, "before we begin, I would like to have a word with Miss McGonagall here."

Dippet looked annoyed, but he nodded.

Minerva felt how the insides of her hands became wet with sweat and she put them on the plaited skirt of her grey school uniform gymslip, trying to appear unperturbed and failing. Why was she so nervous? She had nothing to fear. She had nothing to do with Myrtle's death. Myrtle's death…Merlin…she gulped and felt how traitorous tears pricked at her eyelids.

"Minerva," Professor Dumbledore began calmly, "I merely want you to promise me something."

"Yes, sir," Minerva answered and her voice came out as a squeak. She hated it.

"Promise me to be honest in this conversation, even if we implicate persons, who are close to you within it," the Professor said without beating around the bush.

A sense of righteous anger chased all nervousness away. Of course she would be honest!

"Of course, sir," she replied strongly and hoped that her sense of justified anger wasn't audible in her reply.

Dumbledore nodded, looking inscrutable, and motioned for Dippet to continue. The Headmaster asked them many questions that day, most of which led nowhere. Then it was Dumbledore's turn and he cut to the chase quickly.

"Miss McGonagall," he said very firmly, "do you know something about Mr. Riddle's whereabouts yesterday evening?" Minerva lifted her chin, feeling defiant. He wanted Tom so badly to be the one guilty, didn't he? Tom had been right all along. She felt how some of her respect and admiration for her favourite Professor dissolved into nothingness. "He was with me, sir."

Jonathan pursed his lips and looked away, while Headmaster Dippet seemed slightly scandalised.

"And when was that?" Dumbledore asked.

"The entire evening," Minerva replied, though a doubtful inner voice asked whether protecting Tom was that good of an idea after all. Why not, she told herself, remembering the desolate look on his face as he had told her of his mother. Plus…the Unbreakable Vow. He couldn't have done it.

Her mind made up, she replied to Dumbledore's query whether she was sure about it, with a firm: "Yes."

Professor Dumbledore looked sorrowful, but in the end he could prove nothing and he knew it.

* * *

He had not seen this variable. _Why_ had he not seen it? Tom prided himself on being able to arrange decisions and possible outcomes of situations into neat rows of variables and constants, was able to put them together and arrive at the best outcome for himself.

A part of him was darkly amused that out of everybody who could have been it, it had been one of his own, who had- albeit unknowingly- destroyed all his fine equations with one single sentence.

Abraxas Malfoy's thin face under his slicked-back platinum blond hair had been oddly triumphant, maybe because he was for one the one better informed than his Lord.

"Have you heard?" he had hissed coldly. "If the attacks on the Mudbloods continue, then the school will be closed. My father is a member of the Board of Governors, you see. That's what they are talking about these days, you see." He had come closer then, curiosity shining in his light eyes. "Do you know anything about the attacks?"

"No," Tom had snapped, "and even if I did you would be the last person I'd tell. Get out of my sight, Abraxas, and leave me alone. I need to think."

Abraxas had shrunk back- probably understanding where his place was- and had bowed. "Yes, my Lord."

That show of subservience might have normally filled Tom with a sense of dark satisfaction and triumph, but in that moment he just banished it from his thoughts and rubbed the bridge of his thin nose. This was bad. Very much so even, and he had not seen it. Was it possible that he had got lost in the rush of power that releasing the basilisk on the Mudbloods had given him? The image of Myrtle's limp white hand, useless and dead, rose up to the forefront of his mind.

He frowned, admitting to himself that he had gone too far. Of course the possibility of the school being closed had been there, yes, had featured in his plans, but he had abandoned that train of thought too quickly or so it seemed. He couldn't go back to the dullness of the orphanage. He just couldn't.

For once, his brilliant mind had not arrived at a solution, which was why he was loitering around the staircase leading to Professor Dumbledore's office, where he knew Minerva and Davies to be. He needed to have assurance that the school would not be closed.

A solemn group of four wizards bearing a bier with a person covered by a cloth entered his field of vision then.

Tom watched as they descended the stairs and just as they passed him, he became aware of the limp white hand dangling out from underneath the covers. Myrtle. How strange and curious, he mused, that death reduced persons to this- a mere white hand that would never be lifted again…a hull without a spirit in it, a useless _thing_….he curled his lip.

**_"Riddle!"_**

Another surprise on that day, another variable he had not accounted for, and oh, how he hated that voice.

Turning around, he became aware of the towering figure of Professor Dumbledore, who seemed as thrilled to see him as he was. The man was beckoning for him to come and join him, as if he was a dog who followed every call! Tom buried the spark of anger.

"Professor Dumbledore," he acknowledged politely and made his way up the stairs.

"It is not wise to be wandering around this late hour, Tom," was the first thing out of Dumbledore's mouth. Tom stopped a few feet below him on the staircase, adapting a wholly false show of subservience. For a wild moment he wondered whether Dumbledore saw right through his act. If he did, he did not acknowledge it and so Tom replied finally, trying his best to appear innocent and faltering:

"Yes, Professor. I suppose I-"again he paused and looked down meekly, before straightening up: "I had to see for myself if the rumours were true."

Dumbledore appraised him for a second and Tom once again became aware of the dangerous, powerful aura this man had. "I am afraid they are, Tom. They are true."

If he was careful about it, Tom thought wildly, if he was careful, he might just uncover whether Abraxas had been right.

"About the school as well?" Hesitating for a second, because he actually hated playing the poor orphan card, he tacked on a: "I don't have a home to go. They wouldn't really close Hogwarts, would they, Professor?"

Dumbledore shifted and Tom wondered whether he had actually accepted the orphan card. But no, no, Dumbledore had been the one to collect him from that sorry place, he knew too much…

"I understand, Tom….I am afraid Headmaster Dippet may have no choice," Dumbledore replied decisively.

And suddenly…suddenly he knew what to do. It was so easy. He had planned ahead for this after all, had returned to Myrtle's body that morning to implement the plan, but he had not been sure whether he would actually be able to use it, had discarded it, for he had feared that it might be too obvious…too easily recognised- but maybe that was exactly why he had to do it. It was such an easy plan that it was ingenious and it might save him from having to go to the orphanage and him also from being suspected…

"Sir, if it all stopped…if the person responsible was caught…"

There was a new measure of suspicion in Dumbledore's eyes and for a long, panicked moment Tom actually thought he had found out. But Dumbledore merely asked cuttingly:

"Is there something you wish to tell me?"

Tom felt a foreign presence in his head then and he knew then that Dumbledore was a Legilimens- and a skilled one at that. He had been practicing Occlumency and as such, he thought of a storm-torn coastline with wild waves and foaming sea spray, but part of him feared that it would be too little…too thin a veneer…

"No, sir. Nothing," he said, but he gulped, and was furious at that, for it showed weakness.

Dumbledore looked wary, but he merely nodded. "Very well then. Off you go."

Tom averted his eyes, feeling oddly triumphant. "Goodnight, sir," he mumbled.

Once he was out of Dumbledore's sight, he broke into a run.

As he had surmised, Hagrid was in the dungeons, tending to his acromantula. Surprise at seeing Tom soon turned to fear on the giant's face as Tom brandished his wand.

"Evening, Hagrid," he said sharply. "I am going to have to turn you in, Hagrid."

Hagrid stared at him uncomprehendingly. Tom clarified with a sneer:

"I don't think you meant it to kill anyone, but-"

"You can't!" Hagrid shouted with surprising defiance. "You don't understand."

Don't understand? Oh, Tom understood perfectly well. Hagrid was the only who apparently didn't.

Tom straightened a little and the Prefect badge on his robes gleamed dimly in the flickering light of the torches in the walls' niches. "The dead girls' parents will be here tomorrow, "he said coldly, "the least Hogwarts can do is make sure the _thing_ that killed their daughter is _slaughtered_."

Gryffindor impulsiveness and anger coursed through Hagrid's reply: "It wasn't him! Aragog never killed no one! Never!"

Wryly amused, Tom thought that Hagrid still did not understand. This was not about his Aragog.

"Monsters don't make good pets, Hagrid," he stated coolly. "Now stand aside!"

**"NO!"** Hagrid shouted. A bit irritated, Tom repeated his words, but Hagrid wouldn't budge.

Tom shot a few well-placed spells at the box Hagrid kept the acromantula in and as the beast ran down the hall, aimed a few other spells in its direction. He missed, but that was part of his plan after all- he had never meant to capture the spider. Maybe they had experts, who could reveal that this particular acromantula had not killed the girl…

"Aragog! Aragog!" Hagrid wailed.

In a flash, Tom held him at wandpoint.

"I can't let you go. They'll have your wand for this, Hagrid. You'll be expelled."

"No." Tears were coursing down Hagrid's face and Tom bit back a sneer. He had never understood people who let their emotions run so freely. The orphanage had taught him to cry in seclusion and to spend grievous times consoling himself. There had never been anyone to comfort him.

Shaking his head clear of that thought- he had no place for it now- he tried his best to be sympathetic. "How do you know, Hagrid, that Aragog did not break out of his box one night?"

"He never would," Hagrid replied tearfully.

"That is what you think," Tom pressed on, "but you see, he is an animal. It's nothing he can control, Hagrid. When his instincts tell him to hunt, he has to hunt…"

Hagrid sobbed, seeming to be unable to reply. Tom went farther.

"It's not your fault," he stated, interjecting as much gentleness into his voice as he could muster, "it truly is not. You have never been included by your classmates, have you?"

Hagrid shook his head.

"See…I'll vouch for you, Hagrid." Tom nodded firmly. "I'll say that you are a good person and maybe they'll keep you at Hogwarts. I'll do everything in my power to help you…"

Maybe he had gone too far, because through his tears, Hagrid's beady eyes expressed disbelief.

"Why would you do that?" he asked slowly.

Tom smiled brilliantly, that kind of smile that had all vapid girls swoon at his feet and the kind of smile that had adults comment on how wonderful a boy he was.

"I told you that I didn't have a simple life either, now did I?" he asked. "See, I was brought up in an orphanage and I never had anything to be happy about."

"Nothing?" Hagrid asked, his own grief forgotten, as he looked sorrowfully at Tom. Tom felt a twinge of irritation; he had always hated pity. He pushed a strand of dark hair behind his ear and pocketed the wand, taking Hagrid's arm.

"Come on. Enough talking about me. I promise you, we will find a solution for this dilemma."

* * *

On their way to the Headmaster's office, Hagrid mused: "Maybe you are right, Tom. Aragog is not evil, however, and I can't imagine he'd ever do something as horrific as murdering a girl…"

"Animals are neither evil nor good," Tom said and it might have been the singular most honest thing he had done or said that evening. "They just are. Humans are the only ones who define what is good and what is evil…In a way, animals are so much more honest than we are. They feel a need and they act upon it. That doesn't make them good or evil. They just exist."

Hagrid was silent and contemplative, but when they reached the stone gargoyle, he was trembling.

"Come on, Hagrid," Tom told him and his mood had been elevated so that he could even smile reassuringly. "Where is that Gryffindor Courage?"

Leaving Hagrid to stand back for a moment, he turned to the gargoyle. "Diligence." Headmaster Dippet had given him the password a while back.

Hagrid was a quivering mess nonetheless when they had successfully made their way up the stone staircase. Tom rapped briefly and respectfully on the door of the Headmaster's office and Dippet's gravelly voice asked for them to come in.

When Tom entered the murky gloom of Dippet's office, three pairs of eyes swung his way: Dippet's milky grey stare, Dumbledore's avid blue eyes and an unknown Ministry official's wary dark gaze.

"Ah," Dippet beamed, "Tom, my boy. What brings you here?"

Dumbledore rose, his red cloak rustling. "Amando," he commented sharply, "we were in the middle of a discussion. Unless Mr. Riddle here has something vital to say to us, I am sure this can wait until later. Besides," he added, his icy gaze drilling holes into Tom, "I believe I sent you to bed half an hour ago, Tom."

Tom bowed his head in a submissive gesture, barely hiding an ugly sneer.

Keeping the image of a storm-torn seaside scene in mind as not to have Dumbledore probe his mind like earlier, he uttered politely: "With respect, sir, I have something to say, but I believe Mr. Hagrid is the better-suited of us two."

With that, Tom pushed the giant forward.

Blanching, Hagrid couldn't speak, trembling all over.

"Mr. Hagrid," Dumbledore said kindly- he never used that tone with Tom- "Please, take a seat."

With a flick of his wand he conjured a huge red monstrosity of a chair, on which Hagrid sat down, his huge brown eyes staring fearfully at the three adults.

"It was him!" he said frantically. "My Aragog! But he didn't mean to, I swear he didn't! Please, sirs, I would never allow a girl to be killed! I didn't want this to happen, please, I swear."

"Start at the beginning, Mr. Hagrid," Headmaster Dippet intoned strictly.

And so Hagrid told them, haltingly, of his discovery of the acromantula, how he had cared for it, and how Tom had finally found out.

"It must have been an accident," he concluded, on the brink of tears again.

"Please, sirs," Tom spoke up, "I can vouch for him. "

"Why did you not notify anyone of the fact that he had an acromantula in this school?" Dumbledore asked sharply, his blue eyes never leaving Tom.

As if embarrassed, Tom looked away. "Hagrid has very little friends at Hogwarts," he said carefully, "and I did not want to rob him of the one he had. Besides, he really never meant for any of this to happen. He came voluntarily with me. He is a good person."

Dumbledore's glare was deadly, but Tom didn't avert his eyes. When it finally became too much, though, he looked away to Dippet. The Headmaster looked contemplative.

"We will have to think this over," he finally said. "If you would be so kind, Albus, to escort Mr. Hagrid to the Gryffindor dormitories and return to us later. You, Mr. Riddle, I'd like to express my gratitude to. Please go back to the Slytherin dormitories."

When Dumbledore and Hagrid as well as Tom had gone, the Headmaster turned to the Ministry official, who had remained silent until then.

"You see, sir, the school does not have to be closed. We now have a culprit, who even admitted to his deeds." As he turned to the window of his office to contemplate the silent, starry night, the Ministry Official spoke up. His eyes gleamed like black buttons in the gloom of Dippet's office.

"Are you sure that he is the one solely responsible for all the attacks?"

"Yes," Dippet spoke firmly, looking oddly relieved. "Yes. He might not have wanted all these things to happen, but you can tell the press that Rubeus Hagrid was the one who opened the Chamber of Secrets. This school may remain opened."

* * *

_tbc_


	26. 1943 Part V

_Hi everyone! And again, another chapter for you! I hope you like it :) Thank you for your lovely reviews, **Sara** and **iviscrit**! Where is everyone? Did I abandon the story for too long ? Please leave me a review :) They make my day! :)_

_Sachita_

* * *

**Chapter Twenty-Five  
**

**Slytherin Common Room, Hogwarts, June 15****th****, 1943**

"What did you do?" were the first words out of Minerva's mouth when she entered Slytherin Common Room that afternoon, obviously on her way to a temper tantrum. Her nostrils were flaring dangerously and her whole countenance had a rather unhealthy red tinge to it.

Shocked and appalled whisperers accompanied her entrance "I don't care whether she's Headgirl or not, this is not her home turf", "Someone throw her out!" and "Who does she think she is?"

Minerva disregarded those whispers. Hands on her hips she stared angrily at Tom, who had been reclining on one of the green couches standing in front of the fireplace.

Calmly, he got up, making a show of being slow about it, so that no one would think she held any kind of power over him. Still he could not help a small smile at her anger. "Spitfire" was what the Royal Air Force pilots in London sometimes called their girlfriends and that name was what came to his mind when he looked at her, for she seemed to be spitting mad.

"Let's talk outside," he said languidly and took her arm.

Minerva was still mad, but she allowed him to guide her to the outside, seeing that the gossipers were already avidly listening in and she had no desire to be caught up in the grapevine. Hogwarts had been buzzing with gossip and wild speculations ever since Myrtle's death anyway.

It was a beautiful summer's day and on the edge of the lake, the gargantuan weeping willows nodded their silvery heads in a fresh breeze. Daffodils and bluebells swayed in a silent pattern and from somewhere, the sound of silver bells was carried on the wind. The sun and the wind raked through Minerva's hair and managed to undo some of the strict hairdo, resulting in strands of hair that whipped merrily around her face. Small ripples chased themselves across the glittering water of the lake.

Still, the sight of all that beauty could not appease Minerva, who was staring fixedly ahead angrily, not acknowledging Tom.

"My little spitfire," he said, a teasing note to his London lilt. "My little angry spitfire."

Minerva had no idea how he'd come up with that nickname, although he chuckled softly to himself as if it was a source of great amusement to him, but neither did she care.

"How could you?" she burst out angrily, green eyes shooting daggers at Tom's pale face. "How could you frame Hagrid?"

At that, he showed a sign of genuine interest.

"Frame?" he asked, sounding a bit appalled.

"Please, Minerva, I know that Rubeus Hagrid is one of your Gryffindor cubs, but keeping an Acromantula in this school that goes on a killing spree is nothing you can think of as a good thing. I did not frame him and neither did I ever force him to spend his time tending to carnivores in the school dungeons!"

Minerva arched a cool eyebrow. "But you cannot think of claiming that Hagrid is the one who opened the Chamber of Secrets and aims to conclude Slytherin's hay brained schemes!" she stated frigidly.

"No," Tom laughed briefly, though he relented at her glare.

"But they found bite marks on the corpse, so that Acromantula must have bitten the girl; there is no way around it. As for Hagrid being the one who opened the Chamber of Secrets, well," he laughed again, "I daresay it's highly unlikely. But the attacks have stopped, have they not?" Tom opened his arms wide."So why are you angry at me? I spoke up in his favour; Professor Dumbledore probably conveniently forgot mentioning it to you."

"No," Minerva replied, hugging her arms around herself and gazing over the lake, "No, he did mention it."

"Then why are you mad?" Tom inquired mildly, and then sighed, taking her by the elbow and leading her to the edge of the lake. "Come on; let's sit down for a while."

"It's just unfair!" she eventually said. "Hagrid is such a good person."

"Yet his pet spider killed a girl," Tom pointed out. "Should he not be punished? If you ask me, he got off light anyway. Being able to live on Hogwarts's grounds is not a bad deal for him."

"Yes," Minerva agreed finally and impatiently she pushed the strands that still flew wildly around her face in the swift breeze behind her ears.

"But he will never be able to conclude his magical education! He will never be able to work in the wizard world…"

Tom gazed at her inscrutably, the midnight eyes steady. "Not everyone is like you and me," he eventually mumbled. "Not everyone has such a thirst for academia, for knowledge…"

He leaned back into the high grass and the sun painted reddish streaks into his hair. "If you ask me, he got a good deal," he repeated.

Minerva was reluctant to agree, but she found no argument against Tom's reasoning. "Still, why did do you help him?"

Tom cracked open a wary eye. "I probably can't convince you that I did it out of the goodness of my heart, now can I?" he asked contemplatively.

She snorted in response and tickled him with a long blade of grass, impossibly green in this sunny weather. Tom sneezed and pushed her hand away.

"Actually, he is a good person," he said slowly. "I can't understand how someone can possess such a big heart, but he does, and although I may never be like that, I can still see to it that he is not being treated unjustly. There is enough injustice in the world already."

Minerva did not believe him wholly; she knew that there was some hidden Slytherin aspect to his thoughts regarding Hagrid, but she could not discern as what it might be, and after a while she gave up thinking about it.

Distant laughter came from the school. "They seem to recover quickly," Minerva mused.

"What would you have them do?" Tom inquired coolly. "Be miserable to the end of their days? Humans forget quickly and that might be a good thing, after all, for we would spend our lives in dreary thought otherwise." He watched the quickly-moving clouds over them. "A strange thing, life. What is its purpose? I still have not found out."

"For me, it's being happy," Minerva said decisively. "Leading a fulfilled, happy life is what I strive for."

"Happiness," Tom mused, "such a fickle thing. It never lasts…"

He rolled over on his side and looked at her intently. "How is your father?"

Reminded of what she would have liked to forget, Minerva swallowed something bitter.

"I do not know," she admitted resignedly, "but in her last letter my Mother said it's nearing the end." Tears were struggling to break free and she clenched her fists, biting on her tongue. "I never want that to happen."

Sensing that a change of topic was in order, Tom offered: "Do you think that maybe some people find their purpose of life in dancing tango?"

"Dancing tango?" Minerva repeated disbelievingly and regarded him in bewilderment.

"Yes," he replied simply. "I've always been fascinated by people who are so enamoured with their profession. It is their calling in life, their whole point of view, their obsession- they breathe it, live it and could not do without it. There has been nothing that has offered the same calling for me as of now. I've thought I might start at tango."

He jumped up and performed something that looked entirely ridiculous, as he threw his long limbs into seemingly all directions that there were.

"Tom!" Minerva gasped out between peals of laughter. "That is definitely _something_, but I am pretty sure it is not Tango."

"Well," he shot back smoothly, "we are one of a kind then. I recall you trying to do _something _with me on a table once, which was most definitely not the Lindy Hop…"

"Oh!" she cried and was on her feet as well, pushing him. "You are a tease!"

Tom laughed and sobered. "It's good to see you laugh," he told her and caressed her cheek fleetingly. "You haven't laughed like that for some time."

Minerva bit her lip and looked away from his searching gaze. "I do feel bad about laughing," she admitted quietly. "It feels wrong to laugh when Myrtle is dead."

"Life is for the living, Minerva." Tom's voice was firm and clear. "Do not spend all your time mourning the dead. Life is to be lived and you should definitely not be ashamed for laughter." He took her shoulders and a smile broke out on his face once more. "So what about that tango now?"

She thought that he brushed the topic away quite quickly, but then she had learned to tread carefully around him regarding some topics. Indulging him, she allowed him to swing her around wildly in a resemblance of _something_ which was most definitely not Tango.

"Maybe we should take lessons," she suggested breathlessly and he agreed, swinging her around in a wide circle.

In doing so, they came close to a rock ledge- and because fate sometimes liked to intervene in curious manner- lost their equilibrium. They both let out a wild scream as they tumbled over the edge into the icy water below.

Pushed about violently by the waves of the lake, which did not seem as calm anymore, Minerva caught sight of a wildly-splashing-about Tom.

"Tom!" she gasped.

He caught sight of her and of something behind her and his eyes widened.

"Minerva!" he spluttered. "The squid!"

But it was too late. In a swift movement, they were both each grabbed by one of the Giant Squid's long arms and found themselves lifted high up in the air, wildly screaming. Minerva only had time for a look at Tom's panicked face, who was wildly flailing about, before she was thrown…somewhere.

Somewhere turned out to be the shore and a gasping Tom landed a few feet next to her a few seconds later.

"Good god!" he gasped.

Minerva stared at him and at his usually impeccable hairdo which had transformed into wild black tufts of hair that stood up in all directions and she couldn't help herself; she started to laugh like a maniac.

"What about that tango now, Tom?" she choked out between heaves of laughter.

Tom scowled, but then he took her in and the sorry state they were both in, and soon they were both lying in the sun and laughing like maniacs.

Looking back later, Minerva found that day to be one of her happiest memories no matter what had happened at the school the days prior.

* * *

As she splashed back to the Head Common Room, she caught sight of a couple in a corridor. They were kissing and seemed to be quite intimate.

Looking closer, she discovered it to be none other than Poppy and Antonin Dolohov. The torches on the wall threw odd, flickering shadows on their faces.

Minerva quickly hid behind a column and peeked at the two of them. Poppy seemed… happy. She frowned, wondering why the sight of the two of them kissing upset her. She was hardly in a position to judge after all and reminding Poppy that Antonin was dark would only be hypocritical. Regarding kissing in public hallways, well, Minerva was not a prude and never had been. While she had her principles, she did not thinking adhering to all societal rules would get one anywhere. Thinking of Tom and herself made her blush a little. Firmly shaking her head, she quickly crossed the corridor, deciding that if that was what Poppy wanted, she wouldn't stop her friend, and if Poppy was ready she'd surely tell Minerva all about it.

Jonathan was sitting on their shared couch in front of the fire when she arrived in the Heads' Common Room.

"What happened to you?" he asked boredly, surveying her dripping state. "Fall into the lake?"

"Exactly," Minerva shot back, using the same blasé tone of voice. "I take it you didn't."

_"Obviously."_

"A shame," she stated mockingly and was on her way to her rooms, when he spoke up again, his green eyes gleaming worryingly in the light of the flames.

"I hope you did not believe him?"

"Whom?" she asked sharply and heard how her Scottish lilt brushed over her words more markedly, as it usually was whenever she was upset.

"Riddle. He clearly did frame Hagrid." Jonathan explained with a wide, sweeping movement of his hand.

"There have been acromantula bite marks on Myrtle!" Minerva protested.

Jonathan gazed at her, a trace of pity? in his eyes. "Oh, they say love makes blind," he mused, "and I can see it really does. He is dangerous. I truly hope you see it one day."

"You are delusional," Minerva replied firmly, though inside, she was trembling. Unwilling to give him the satisfaction of seeing her doubts, she gathered her things and fled to her rooms. Jonathan stayed sitting in front of the fireplace for a long time that evening though and sometimes he shook his head softly as he reflected on the waste of talent and looks that was Minerva McGonagall.

Minerva sat in front of her mirror and finished braiding her hair to her customary bed style and unbidden, Jonathan's words came back to her.

When she analysed the past few days, she realised that Tom had been behaving unlike his usual self. Protecting Hagrid did not seem like him at all. He was cold and calculating, but definitely not empathic, and protecting Hagrid must have served his own ends. But what ends? If he was especially vocal about defending Hagrid, it would make no-one suspicious of his activities, would it? Yet Tom couldn't have been the culprit. Maybe Antonin Dolohov? Did he want to protect his minions?

The thought made her nearly gag and she wished fervently that she was wrong.

But when she imagined life without Tom, she could feel a knot lodging itself in her throat. His closeness was like a drug she could not live without and even the thought made her shiver. How she loved him and how much she depended on him, she realised with a small self-deprecating laugh.

What good did it do her now to muse about things she had no control over? With that thought in mind, she changed into her nightdress and crawled under the red-and-golden covers of her bed. It helped nothing, and decisively, she extinguished the candle on her nightstand, bathing the room in darkness.

On the next day, Tom was awarded a special medal in Services of the School as the Chamber incident was put to rest officially. A very relieved Headmaster Dippet shook Tom's hand and clapped his back. While everyone was clapping and Tom was wearing what Minerva recognised as forced smile, Albus Dumbledore was pointedly not clapping. When she caught his eyes, the ice in them quickly made her look away.

* * *

**Hogwarts, June 27th, 1943**

She had had to wait an entire two weeks before being able to visit Hagrid. It was Saturday and most pupils went to Hogsmeade. Myrtle's funeral having taken place a week before, things were slowly beginning to return to normal- quicker than Minerva would have liked, yet she also knew that Tom must have been right. No one talked about the attacks and it was probably that way because no one liked to think of them. The persons petrified had been revived with a mandrake draught and all seemed as if nothing had happened.

Something had happened though and it was Minerva, who, on her way to Hagrid's new dwellings at the edge of the forest, found out first.

"MURDER!" a shrill voice exclaimed. "MURDER! I WAS MURDERED!"

Minerva was startled horribly and jumped nearly out of her bones. The voice seemed to come from the second-floor-girls bathroom, the room wherein Myrtle had been murdered.

She pushed the door carefully open and first thought that she was beginning to imagine things, for there was nothing. In the murky gloom of early twilight, the toilet stalls were bathed in an eerie blue light. Yet it was silent like in a grave.

"MURDER! WHY DOES NO ONE CARE?"

And there…there she was.

"Myrtle?" Minerva exclaimed. It was nearly a scream.

Myrtle- or ghost Myrtle- slowly turned into her direction. A high-pitched laugh escaped her.

"Oh look, it's the Headgirl! Minerva, oh Minerva, why did you not hold me back when I went away alone that evening?"

Minerva stared at the ghostly apparition. "Why are you still here, Myrtle?"

Myrtle cackled. She seemed to have lost some of her shy disposition with her death. "To haunt Olive Hornby," she informed Minerva. "She was the one who mocked my ribbons and my glasses and I swear I will haunt her till the day she dies!"

"I am sorry for what happened to you, Myrtle," Minerva said sincerely, but the ghost would have none of it.

"MURDERED!" she screamed shrilly. "I WAS MURDERED AND NO ONE CARES! OOOOOH!"

With another loud scream, she disappeared through the wall. An icy fist seemed to clench around Minerva's heart and she left the bathroom quickly, nearly breaking into a run.

Being in such a hurry, she nearly knocked Professor Dumbledore over.

He held her at arm's length and examined her white face.

"Are you alright, Miss McGonagall?" he then questioned carefully. With a pang, Minerva realised that he had quit calling her by her given name and had reverted to formality.

"I am well, sir," she replied politely, "thank you. However, I fear Myrtle has returned as a ghost."

The Professor sighed. "I know, I am already informed about this. Very, very regrettable. The poor girl. It's an existence I would wish on no one, torn by grief and guilt, ravaged by past mistakes that can never be put right again."

Was it her imagination or did he look at her in a most peculiar way as he said those words? Minerva was not sure, but the look in his eyes chilled her. A harsh gust of air raced through the corridor and made her shiver.

"It's stormy outside," Professor Dumbledore remarked with a faraway look in his eyes. "A storm is brewing on the continent."

"Grindelwald?" Minerva ventured tentatively.

His blue eyes snapped abruptly back to hers. "I hope you will be careful, Miss McGonagall. Those are hard times. Unfortunately, I have to depart now."

With that, he left her standing alone in the corridor and moved past her. She turned around, catching just a glimpse of his blue robes. "Professor! I-" But he was already gone.

* * *

With a heavy heart, she slipped outside that afternoon. Like the Professor had said, a storm was coming up. Dark clouds amassed on the horizon, chasing the white summer clouds away. The weeping willows at the edge of the lake embraced the harsh gusts of wind and their long twigs whipped the air scornfully. Her long hair was torn out of her strict burn and the long strands billowed past her as she hurried down the path to Hagrid's hut.

Hagrid had been waiting for her. The hut where he now lived was still makeshift at best, but, as he told her with a wide smile: "I will see to it that it is the most comfortable home soon. Professor Dumbledore told me that he'd help me with it."

Seeing her downcast expression, he asked: "What's wrong, Miss Minerva?"

Minerva sat down on one of the oversized chairs and accepted the equally oversized mug of tea he gave her with a smile of gratitude. "They snapped your wand," she then stated lowly.

"They did," Hagrid confirmed and sat down on the chair opposite of her. "But none of the students has been here to bother me, per Professor Dumbledore's orders, and at least I can still remain here. My Dad died last year. This is my home."

Minerva sighed and the knot in her throat would not budge. She raked her hands through her wind-dishevelled hair and pulled it back into a knot. "Are you sure that your Aragog was the one to kill Myrtle?"

Then it was Hagrid's turn to look away and he seemed uncomfortable, dragging a hand through his wild brown locks. As he leaned back, the chair creaked ominously.

"Well, Tom's reasoning was sound and they did find the bite marks," he said slowly and stifled something that sounded a suspicious lot like a sob. "I'd never thought that Aragog might do something like this, you see, Miss Minerva. It's such a horrible thing that happened. I trusted him! I did!"

Seeing no other way to console him, Minerva patted his arm. "I am sure it was an accident."

Hagrid sniffed and a few tears made his way down his gentle face. "Yes, Miss Minerva."

That did not make her feel better in the slightest. Guilt had been haunting her for days now, for who was to say that one of Tom's minions hadn't been the one to open the Chamber? Hagrid couldn't have done it, the idea alone was laughable, and she suspected Headmaster Dippet had agreed to it for political reasons alone. Maybe Aragog had killed that girl, but Acromantulas could not petrify anyone. Their poison was designed to kill, not to render helpless. Yet…she could not think of anything that would be able to petrify anyone in the way all those pupils had been petrified.

Hagrid was watching her, when she lifted her gaze. "You've been miserable, Miss Minerva," he commented, uncommonly perceptive. "You shouldn't be. I am happy here." Taking on of her hands in his, he asked: "Have you ever seen the Forbidden Forest in the wee morning hours?"

When Minerva shook her head, he elaborated: "There is golden mist hanging about in the trees and the birds chirp, real quiet-like. There is that hush over the forest, the one when you know it's not really day, but not night anymore either. The sun rises through the trees like a giant fireball and the dewdrops in the leaves sparkle in the light- red and golden and blue. It's the most beautiful thing I have ever seen and now I can see it every day. So why are you sad for what happened, Miss Minerva?"

She looked at him in slight awe. There were more dimensions to Hagrid than seen at first glance and as it was, she sometimes forgot about that herself.

"You said that beautifully," she told him and squeezed his hand. "Very well, I won't be sad anymore."

Hagrid smiled at her kindly, happily, and the expression on his young face told her that he was truly happy because she had said that she would not be sad anymore.

When she made her way back to the school that evening, Minerva was a bit happier than she had been for quite some time.

* * *

**Hogwarts, June 29th****, 1943**

As it was, the end of the school year was approaching and with it, her final exams. She would never see this school again, at least not in the capacity of a student. Although Minerva knew that she was supposed to study for the exams that would start tomorrow, she did not feel panic.

Instead, she allowed herself to stand at the window of her room, gazing out over the lake. The sun was setting far in the West and when she opened the window, she could still feel the warmth of the day that was already fading. It was much like a symbol, she pondered, a symbol for something ending and something else starting.

School had been the source of both joy and grief for her, but nonetheless, she loved Hogwarts with a fervour that she couldn't have explained if asked. Leaving it meant going back to an uncertain future in Scotland, for the news presented about her father in her mother's letters left little to hope for. Andrew and Inéz were to marry this autumn and that was one thing at least Minerva was looking forward to. The letter of acceptance to a position as trainee at the Department of Mysteries weighed heavy on her heart. Of course, part of her was overjoyed and excited- moving to London meant discovering a whole new world. Another part was afraid.

The sunset's colours were reflected in the water of the lake that day- red and fierily beautiful and Minerva vowed to herself that no matter where life's ways took her, she would stay true to herself. The quizzical call of a blackbird resounded and she smiled a little at its familiarity- she knew the call of those birds. They had been part of her life ever since she had been a little girl and she knew well that their call was different in the mornings and evenings. Now, the call spoke of evening and of an end of an era.

With a heavy heart, Minerva closed the window.


	27. 1943 Part VI

_Hello everyone! It's a great thing to have holidays because now I can finally continue this story at a much quicker pace. I hope you like this chapter as well and thank you very much for your kind reviews, **iviscrit, bloodylie, Sarafina** (no worries, I am happy to see you that you are back :) There are some more weather descriptions in this piece, I am glad you like them!), **Kate, Emily**, and **Sara**! _

_Best wishes,_

_Sachita  
_

* * *

**Chapter Twenty-Six**

**Head Girl Chambers, Hogwarts, July 11th, 1943**

"You shouldn't wear a bun today," Poppy chided gently and caught Minerva's hands, which were in the process of fixing her long black hair into her customary hairstyle.

"Today is special. After all, it's your graduation ceremony. Just let me do it."

Minerva remained standing in front of the mirror obediently, watching mutely how Poppy twirled and braided thick strands of her black hair into an artful construction, all the while chattering on about how she had been forced to separate a fight going on today in the corridors and how little First Year Pomona Sprout had wanted to have her looking at her cut hand because she was too nervous to go to the Hospital Wing…

After a while she fell silent and it seemed to Minerva that her friend had literally been talking around the elephant in the room.

"So…you and Antonin Dolohov," Minerva stated finally, less of a question than of a plea to explain.

Poppy didn't even blush. She just fastened another strand of Minerva's hair with a translucent hair pin.

"Tony and me, yes," she replied quite confidently.

Minerva very nearly pulled a face. _Tony_ just did not sound like the cocky, dark Antonin at all.

Feeling suddenly insecure, she asked warily: "What of your parents?"

Poppy laughed, a short, sad sound that Minerva think on how much her friend- but maybe also she herself?- had changed.

"Look at me," Poppy whispered and stood next to Minerva. For a while they gazed silently at their reflections in the gold-framed mirror- one girl russet-haired with freely-falling curves of hair and one dark-haired with half of her hair up in a complicated hairdo while the other still fell around her shoulder like an obsidian waterfall. Earnest brown eyes met green.

"Look at us," Poppy repeated softly and Minerva did not break her gaze.

"We are not our parents. We are modern women in a modern world."

Poppy was the first to look away. "Merlin knows," she sighed, "I've tried, for a while, to adopt my parents' dreams as my own, become a well-mannered dutiful housewife, cooking lunch and dinner for William and the children, minding the household…" she trailed off and her brown eyes were clouded.

"But I do enjoy helping people. It is what makes me the happiest and it is my calling, my profession. Being a healer is what I want to do with my life. And Antonin…Antonin makes me feel alive, Minerva."

Minerva half-turned around to her, assessing her carefully. "Are you happy, Poppy?" she inquired firmly.

"I am," Poppy smiled brilliantly if a little tearfully.

Minerva caught one of her hands. "Then that is all I could ask for."

Poppy's smile increased and her eyes shone wetly with relief and gratitude.

"Whatever shall I do here when you are gone?" she sighed.

"Why, visit me in London whenever you have free time, of course," Minerva replied with a little wink.

At that, Poppy chuckled. "Come on," she said cheekily, "Tom won't know what hits him when he sees you tonight. We'll transform you into a goddess!"

Poppy stayed true to her word. When she was finished, Minerva hardly recognised herself. White pearls had been woven through her hair and complimented the dark strands like a Queen's crown. Her dress was Gryffindor red that night and the plaited skirt swung in soft circles down to her knees. A slim silver necklace adorned her modest cleavage. She had allowed herself some lipstick, remembering amusedly how awkward she'd been at fourteen years of age regarding lipsticks and dresses in general. She did not mind wearing lipstick now and had found her own style of clothing.

Maybe that was part of growing up- finding out who you really were, she mused, what kinds of things you wanted to wear, what kinds of outlooks you wished to have and most importantly, where you wanted life to lead you.

* * *

When she entered the Great Hall that was overflowing with flowery decorations and green, yellow, red and blue ribbons representing the four Houses that night, Minerva found Tom's eyes, who was standing at the entrance, waiting for her. He cut an immaculate figure in his black-and-green dress robes and his eyes widened slightly as he caught sight of her and he raked his gaze up and down with a look of impressed longing.

Minerva stifled a smile and allowed him to lead her to their seats, right next to the Gryffindor joker James Taylor and his parents. Poppy followed them suit. Minerva's parents and her brother Andrew had been unable to come for their daughter's graduation ceremony and her father's condition hung over her like a dark cloud in spite of her joy about this evening. Thus, Minerva had given her two free cards to her two dearest friends and she was glad to have them with her that night.

James gave her a nudge when she had sat down next to him.

"Have you read the newspaper today by chance?" he asked, eyes glinting oddly.

"No," Minerva whispered back, wondering what was so urgent. She would have liked to watch the proceedings, seeing that Headmaster Dippet was ascending the stairs to the podium, followed by the Heads of House.

"Yesterday and the day before, the Allies landed in Sicily. This is the beginning of the end of the war!" His eyes were shining and the smile that curled his mouth was so hopeful that Minerva could not help but smile back. James was muggle-born and as such, he was always the first to read the latest newspapers and was well-informed about the Muggle War.

"Mind you," James continued, "it's not over, but it's a start."

At that, Tom on Minerva's other side, laughed mirthlessly.

"You think so? They are not in Germany yet. What about Grindelwald? Is he defeated? In fact the latest _Daily Prophet_ edition spoke of his latest victories. You are a fool to give out false hope now."

James bristled. "Better to hope than to despair at what is going on. I am turning eighteen in two months," he hissed sharply. "The only thing I can do now is hope."

Tom raised an eyebrow and stared at him coolly. James, after a while turned away, anger still shining in his eyes. Minerva shot a frigid glare at Tom, but he refused to meet her gaze. The peaceful atmosphere of before had been interrupted, but Minerva found that even talks of the war could not entirely shake her feeling of anticipation.

This was her last day at school and she would not allow it to be ruined.

With that in mind, she looked to the podium where Elma Gladys, clad in a pink monstrosity, beamed as she received her graduation papers. Even though Minerva held little affection for her former friend, she smiled. There was something so very special about this day and with that thought the feeling of light giddiness she had had before returned.

Two weeks after passing the NEWTS, they were finally to receive their graduation papers. They had been told the grades earlier on and Minerva was largely satisfied. Her grades were exceptional, although some of her inner sense of ambition wondered whether she might have done better had she spent more time studying. But even Tom had groaned as she had wondered that out loud, so she had let the matter finally rest.

She was still musing about that, when her name was being called by Headmaster Dippet.

"Minerva McGonagall to the front, please," he called out firmly.

With shaking hands, Minerva made it up the front stairs, praying that she wouldn't fall over the stairs leading up to the podium. The Headmaster took a look at her red dress and fished a corresponding red rose out of a bucket in front of his feet, handing it to her, while simultaneously shaking her hand and congratulating her.

A little bit dazed, Minerva accepted his congratulations and then turned to her Head of House, Professor Dumbledore. She felt initially a spike of wariness, but there was no ice in his eyes this time. On the contrary he was smiling at her quite warmly.

"No matter what I think of your choices," he told her while handing her the thick brown envelope containing her graduation certifications, "I will always think highly of you as person, Minerva. You have become very dear to me over the years and I shall hope that our paths will cross again. There are not many as talented and gifted as you are out there. I wish you only the very best."

Beaming, while tears shone in her eyes, Minerva shook his hand warmly.

"Thank you, sir," she replied sincerely and the fact that the twinkle in his blue eyes had returned, at least for the moment, made a rush of unforeseen warmth course through her. "Thank you for everything."

When she turned and left the podium, Tom's gaze found her. He was smiling at her widely, his eyes fixed solely on her. Minerva knew that she would never forget that moment for as long as she lived: Tom's blue eyes were sparkling with joy and pride as his whole attention was on her and only on her. A bit shakily, she smiled back and descended the stairs without tripping even once.

Later that evening, as most were inside, talking to the teachers and enjoying some orange juice, or, to celebrate this day, some sparkling wine, Minerva and Tom took a walk outside. Dawn was falling over Hogwarts and pale slivers of fog crawled along the bushes, clung to the trees and covered the grass like a blanket. The dawn was of a pale, orange-hued colour that sifted through the mist and cast a surrealistic shine on the Grounds. A cool breeze had sprung up and Minerva shivered.

Tom lent her his robes without even thinking about it. If anything, the orphanage had taught him a deeply-ingrained set of manners, so that he didn't even think about some actions anymore.

They remained silent for some time, basking in the quiet of the departing day, when Tom suddenly said: "One year from now I'll be starting my work as a job assistant at Borgin and Burke's."

Minerva shook his arm that had been around her shoulders abruptly off. "You'll do what? Borgin and Burke's? What kind of shop is that?"

"You wouldn't have heard of it," Tom replied slightly condescendingly. "It's in Knockturn Alley."

"Knockturn Alley?" Minerva whispered horror-struck, her voice failing her. "You promised me- you promised me you wouldn't harm any innocents!" Her heart thudded wildly in her chest and suddenly the early evening atmosphere seemed cold and foreign. When Tom touched her arm she backed away as if struck.

His answering laugh was nasty and just a bit cruel. "I'll work in a shop that sells ancient artefacts, Minerva, not in a bloody Muggle asylum or a torture chapter! Besides-"

He never got to finish that sentence for an owl swooped down and dropped a letter into Minerva's hands, who caught it deftly.

Her heart started thudding wilder even.

Thud- the letter was from her mother.

Thud-not- please-thud-thud…One look at the contents of the letter and she felt as if her heart might give out of her. The world transformed into a dull roar of colour and sound.

Vaguely, she was aware of Tom's hands shooting out to catch her when her legs gave way underneath her. She hung limply in his grip, staring dazedly up at the evening sky and at the trees that swayed by dizzyingly, as Tom sat carefully down on the ground, keeping her in his arms all the time. She could hear and feel his heart beating- a little faster than normal- as she leaned against his strong chest. Then the tears started to come and she hid her face in the dark fabric of his robes. Tom didn't say anything at first, but his grip on her tightened.

"Minerva," Tom then mumbled and his voice was a rumble in his chest. "What was in that letter?"

She shook her head frantically.

The tears came faster.

* * *

**Scotland, July 15th, 1943**

The burial of Gavyn McGonagall, esteemed Auror and revered head of the McGonagall family clan took place on a rainy day in mid-July, 1943.

Andrew and Inéz had come, standing next to each other, wearing matching expressions of sadness. When the funeral ceremony was over and most mourners had left, Andrew's gaze wandered over to his sister, who stood secluded and alone, at the gates of the cemetery, looking out over the Scottish hills. Another look he shot at their mother, who knelt at the headstone, an unmoving figure in her heavy black dress and the black bonnet, under which the severely-parted black hair peeked out. She might as well have been a stone herself for all her lack of movement.

Andrew bit his lip and turned in his sister's direction.

Excusing himself from Inéz's company, he came to stand next to Minerva and chanced a look at her. Her face was very pale underneath the severe crown of braids she wore that day and her black dress robes made her seem older than her years.

"I will miss him," he confessed.

Minerva nodded, just a quick, small jerk of her head. Her lips were tightly pursed and Andrew knew that she was holding back sobs when he became aware of the small tremors shaking her slim frame.

He put a careful arm around her shoulders. "It was inevitable," he mumbled sadly.

"I know," Minerva whispered finally, defiantly wiping some tears from her eyelashes. "But I was hoping…"

"As were we all," Andrew replied in kind. The light drizzle that had come up sprinkled them with wetness and the silver rain drops were caught on the black iron gates, dripping down like tears.

As if following an impulse, Minerva stepped through the gates and stared at the mossy green hills of the Highlands that were spread out in front of her like a perfect picture postcard from her vantage point on the hillock the cemetery was located on. Her eyes wandered towards the narrow road that cut through the hills and passed the village. Like exactly a year before on that day, the postman's old black Ford passed the serpentines laboriously. A choked sob made her clamp her hand in front of her mouth when she remembered that she had last seen this car on exactly that day a year ago with her father, sitting on the terrace of the Manor. She would never get to do so with him again.

"You should talk to Mother. I already did." Andrew's gentle voice broke her out of her reverie. Minerva shook her head. "Whatever could I say to her?" she asked wearily, sadly.

There was some admonishment in Andrew's voice. "She's our Mother."

Minerva turned half-way to gaze at the black figure that now stood, still unmoving, next to the grave, almost lost in the rainy grey drizzle. "I can never be the daughter she wants me to be…"

Andrew opened his mouth as if to say something, then sighed with a resigned look at Minerva and walked away. Minerva watched motionlessly how he put his arm around their mother's shoulders and led her away. She tugged her black shawl tighter around her shoulders. A sharp cry made her look up. A single bird of prey circled over her, just a black shadow against the grey expanse of sky.

Minerva took a deep, shuddering breath. There was nothing keeping her here now.

* * *

**Scotland, July 30th, 1943**

A pale sun rose over the hills that morning and bathed Scotland's magnificent mountain scenery in a milky, faint sort of light that made Minerva feel as if she had trod into a scene from a Muggle fairytale. Thin fog drifted along the edges of the lake and swirled in a curious symphony along the small rippling waves the fresh breeze created that had sprung up. It combed through Minerva's hair and let the dark mass flutter gently. Minerva wrapped her woollen blanket tighter around her shoulders and descended the sloping hills, walking towards the lake. Her hand found Tom's letter in her pocket. It was crinkled from having been read numerous times. He wished her all the best in this hard time, but had ended the letter on a questioning note, wondering whenever she was going to come to London to start her work at the Department of Mysteries. He concluded that he missed her. Minerva had smiled wanly. She missed him as well, his wry smirk, the look in his blue eyes when he gazed at her, his silky strands of hair, tousled in a quick breeze…Her nights were spent haunted by the memory of his warm embraces and his fierce kisses.

The edges of her long blue cotton dress and the grey blanket both trailed over the wet grass, catching dewdrops in the process. Minerva shivered slightly and turned, looking back at the Manor. The sun had risen higher and was reflected golden in the multiple windows. With a knot in her throat she looked at the small terrace. The roses' bloom was almost over, yet their vivid red shone defiantly against the grey walls of the Manor. She remembered sitting on that terrace with her father…as it had come to an end. He had been so collected even then. For a moment she closed her eyes and remembered leaning into the touch of his hand on her cheek, remembered pressing a kiss to his own, stubbly cheek, felt again his warm, calming closeness that had been with her for as long as she could remember. Her eyes stung as she opened them. The image of Gavyn McGonagall was gone, swept away by the early autumn breeze.

Blinking the tears away firmly, Minerva walked on, farther towards the lake. How green the grass and moss was, even at this time of year! When she had met Abigail for the first time three years ago almost to the day, back in early autumn of 1940, she had still been so young, so naïve, in a way. Young she still was, but she remembered looking in the mirror this morning. The girl that had looked back at her had seemed different somehow. It was apparent at her facial structure- it had become sharper over the years, moulding the baby fat of her younger years into a lean, young woman. She had barely recognised the face of the person that had looked back at her and for the first time in her life, she had started to wonder where the years had gone. It was merely the shadow of an idea, but she thought that she might not have been thinking that thought for the last time in her life.

She stifled a bittersweet smile as she finally arrived on the edge of a particular steep hillock. It had been here where Abigail had once thrown her arms up, leaning back and laughing into the sunshine with wide-opened eyes.

"What are you doing?" Minerva had asked curiously, her own arms linked orderly behind her back.

"Living!" Abigail had shouted in merriment and then she had taken Minerva's hands, not listening to her friend's cries for her to stop and she had twirled her around, quicker and quicker, until they had both lost their equilibrium and had tumbled down the hill, laughing and screaming. The grass had smelled so intensely of summer and of sunshine. Minerva could still recall that scent vividly. She bent down and brought a handful of grass and meadow plants to her nose, but the scent was not there. Instead, the grass smelt of approaching autumn and after that, winter. It was even there in the air. For Minerva who had grown up in the countryside the scent was in every breath she took.

Scotland was beautiful in winter as well, though sometimes stingingly, intensively cold. But on some days Minerva had used to sit on the window sill of her room, looking outside in silence. The sunset's colours had tinted the sky in magnificent hues. Summer sunsets had always been different than winter sunsets. While summer sunsets boasted with fiery, lavish intensity of colour and scent, winter sunsets used fewer colours, but they formed such beautiful pastel combinations that Minerva would not want to decide which kind of sunsets she liked better. The decision would have been nigh impossible to make. Those pale winter sunsets had often been a mixture of pale red, pale yellow and of an infinitely clear blue.

The air had been so serene and undisturbed that all contours were sharp black silhouettes against the evening sky and Minerva had used to marvel at how she could count each branch and each twig of the leafless trees that reached like black pieces of art to distant skies. On the edges of what Minerva felt to be the world- her world at the very least- stars had started to glimmer and the few lamps outside of the McGonagall Manor had formed a curious contrast to the blue snow. All in all, the combination of that pastel sunset, the clear-cut trees and the yellow light on the blue snow had sometimes filled Minerva with so much yearning for something that she could not clearly define yet what was definitely bigger than herself and her life and she had been forced to draw her knees to her chest so that the yearning would not tear her apart.

The distant call of a blackbird broke her out of her reverie and made her think of those last Hogwarts days in late summer. It was all over now, just like her life in Scotland.

The thought made her feel oddly whimsical again and in order to shake it off, she walked down the remaining distance to the deep blue waters of the lake. There was that edge of the lake, quite far from the Muggle village, where she had liked to take a bath in those hot days of mid-summer. When she had been little, her brother had often come to join her and she recalled those wild, splashing days of water and sun with some wistfulness. When Minerva had been around seven years old and Andrew already in his late teens, he had been especially fond of diving to the lake bottom in order to retrieve some of the viscous black mud to be found there and he had been delighted when Minerva hadn't been quick enough to evade him and he could cover his little sister all over with the black goo. She had equally delighted in paying him back, though, and that had, much to the horror of their mother often resulted in two goo-covered children scuffling their way back up to the Manor.

Minerva put her hand in the clear water and smiled at the familiar cold sensation of the water rushing over her skin. Her eyes found the miniscule insects that glided over the water without much effort. Water skeeters. When she had been a child, she had wanted to glide over the water just like them and much to her delight, she had found out about a charm in her Hogwarts years that allowed her to do just that. It still filled with her a kind of childish glee.

Straightening up, she looked back to the Manor. The sun had risen completely and its grey, imposing structure was now clearly visible.

Minerva sighed. There was nothing here for her now. She felt in every fibre of her being.

Abigail was gone, married, her friendship and those happy days of youth gone forever. Michael was dead and her beloved father was, too. Her mother and she had never seen eye to eye. Andrew had moved to Oxford a long time ago and although he was not going to marry this autumn, having postponed the wedding, he was sure to do so next spring.

Now…it seemed to be her, who was leaving.

She hadn't imagined that it might be so hard after all to leave all this behind. Maybe she had never known how much she actually loved this little Scottish sanctuary. Wasn't that a Muggle saying- you never know how much you actually love something until it's gone?

Maybe the saying was true, but the future lay in London, and part of Minerva was excited to go there. She had heard so much about London already that the excitable part of her already fancied itself quite in love with that city. Yet another part remembered the firestorm of December 1940 and her fear in that night.

There was to be no hesitation now. Minerva turned one last time to the lake, marvelled at its sheer bottomless beauty and turned with a bittersweet smile to the hills.

"Bye," she whispered. "Bye."

* * *

Having said her goodbyes to Fletcher, the loyal house-elf, Minerva braced herself for the task that was a lot more difficult.

Her mother was standing in the kitchen with her back to Minerva as the latter entered, wearing her warm blue coat and her white cap. Her black hair had been tamed in a braid that hung to her waist. Her mother's hair was in contrast up in a very strict knot that made the silver strands stand out all the more. The black dress she was wearing seemed even more severe than usual.

"Mother," Minerva spoke up, proud that her voice was only trembling a little. "Mother, I am leaving."

Her mother still did not turn around, but she replied at the very least. "It's not even a month after your father's funeral and you are leaving." Her deep voice was wooden.

"He would want me to look forward to the future!" Minerva defended herself.

"How could you know what your father wanted?" her mother snapped and this time she turned around. Her eyes were like frozen blue ice, yet Minerva read a deep weariness in them that made her swallow her own, sharp reply.

"Go now!" her mother hissed. "Go and get married to that orphan boy from London if that is what your foolish heart desires!"

"Mother…"

"Go," she repeated, more forcefully this time.

Minerva grasped the handle of her suitcase. "I am only doing what I want to do," she said defiantly, "and I wish you would respect that."

But her mother had turned her back on Minerva again and although her eyes were starting to burn again, Minerva held her head high in defiance and finally went away, letting the door fall shut with a resounding bang.

Only then did Adelaide McGonagall look up and when she was sure that Minerva was gone, she braced her weight on the kitchen table and sagged forward a bit. She remained like that for a long time.

* * *

_Annotation: _

_"I am turning eighteen in two months…" James is referring to the draft that was put into place by the British government one month after the Second World War broke out, in October 1939. According to the government back then, men aged between 18 and 41 could be conscripted if the need arose. Men aged between 20 and 23 were from 1939 on required to join the Armed Forces._

_Source: Historyonthenet(dot)com_


	28. 1943 Part VII

_Hi everyone! Update! Hope you like this one! Thank you very much for the wonderful reviews, **Emily, iviscrit, Sara** and of course **Sherbet!** You are awesome! _

_There are some of German philosopher Immanuel Kant's most famous and most interesting words in this piece that I absolutely claim no ownership to. And Tom and Antonin are being twisted- I can't help that either :P _

_So now, enjoy!  
_

_The next chapter should be up soon, because I still have holidays :-) Sachita  
_

* * *

**Chapter Twenty-Seven**

**Whitechapel, London, August 1943**

Thick tendrils of whitish and yellowish mist curled around the edges of the moss-covered trees and hugged the tips of the black iron fence surrounding the small park Minerva was walking alongside of.

It was early August and Minerva was due to start work on September 1st. She had come to live in London for a few weeks before though in order to find her way around- and in order to spend some time with Tom, though she never gave that as first reason. Finding her way around was badly-needed, too, for she got lost every second day. London was such a big city.

As she looked beyond the park and down the small cobblestone street she was standing on, the fog seemed to descend like a woven blanket, quickly hiding anything farther away than five metres from sight. Minerva shivered as the fog swirled around her, making it hard to breathe.

She took a deep, struggling breath and walked on. The fog seemed to part to accommodate her form for a moment before it returned to its former state of swirling whiteness. Minerva took a cautious step and then another, wrapping her hand tightly around her fir wand in her pocket. The fog seemed almost like a living entity, something foreign and cold in the great city.

"Hello…" A voice called from somewhere. Minerva, who had some time ago already lost all sense of orientation, winced and her wand curled tighter around the fir wand.

"Hello…" the wind-blown voice echoed again.

Minerva thought about replying, but thought better of it when the disembodied voice came from farther away and finally disappeared altogether in the distance. It had been probably been just another fog wanderer, lost like herself, she mentally amended. Lost? Icy fingers clenched around her heart and her breathing came a little faster as she tried to figure out just where she was. Using magic to find her way for some reason never occurred to her in that moment.

A hand on her shoulder startled her so badly that she let out a scream and jumped away.

"Minerva- easy there, it's just me."

It was Tom, clad in Muggle clothes- grey, plaited trousers with braces, a white shirt and a flat cap on his head. He was looking at her askance.

"I've been looking all over the city for you," he stated wryly, looking rather amused at her fright. _Sadist!_ Minerva thought grimly.

"What is this?" she asked, ignoring his statement, indicating all the fog around them. "I've never seen fog that dense before."

Tom laughed richly, a full, deep laugh heard rarely on him. "Welcome, my sweet Minerva," he said grandly, a note of strange pride in his voice, "to the Big Smoke. London doesn't have that nickname for nothing and today you are getting an exclusive introduction to the London fog. It's not only natural fog. It mainly consists of the exhaust fumes from factories and gets especially bad whenever the weather turns around and we end up in a low-pressure area. People have ended up drowning in the Thames because they got lost due to it."

Minerva held out a hand into the diffuse wetness and drew it back, slightly disgusted. "How did you find me?"

Tom looked bored. "You weren't that hard to find. I know my way around Whitechapel." He offered his hand to her.

Minerva felt a little foolish, but she grabbed Tom's hand anyway, because the prospect of remaining in that faceless fog that nonetheless seemed to be alive was horrifying. He smirked. In a surprisingly gentle voice he then said: "Close your eyes."  
Minerva stared at him, but he only repeated himself. With a hesitant look, she finally closed her eyes. Tom stepped closer and covered her eyes with his hands. His touch was warm and not at all uncomfortable.

"Now…"Tom whispered, "Listen."

Minerva at first heard nothing, only the sounds of the city in the distance as this was a side street, but by the by, she could make out individual sounds: The sound of splashing liquid on cobblestones, the clinking of china washed by busy hands, distant sounds of laughing and cheering.

"It sounds like a pub…"

"Very good," Tom sounded proud. "The pub's backdoor is just around the corner. It's called Three Tuns. They have very good Ale. But what you know now, is that Whitechapel High Street is that way because that is where the pub is located."

He paused. "So where do you have to turn to get home?"

Minerva smiled even though he couldn't see it and leaned back in his embrace. "Exactly the other way."

Tom's voice rumbled reassuringly in his chest. "So now that you know which direction you should take, listen some more."

Again, Minerva listened, and there were rhythmic sounds of machines going tock-tock-tock…"A factory," she found.

"Right. It's a rope maker factory. This is where you want to go. But take care of where you go. The slaughterhouse is in the parallel street. You don't want to go there. On some days the gutter is red with blood."

Minerva shuddered and allowed him to lead her on, while her eyes were still closed. Tom showed her his London that day and she smelt and heard it- a slight whiff of fresh bread – "they make wicked pastries" he said and sounded a bit wistful to Minerva's ears- the staccato noises of something hard impacting on leather – "saddles are made there"- the smell of rotten fish – "Miss Cole likes to grouse about that chap selling fish there, says he makes you get food poisoning, and I am inclined to agree, so take care"- excited chatter next- "Oh Goodness, the hairdressers…" Finally the noises died down and Tom removed his hands from her eyes.

"Here you are," he said, drily motioning to the house Minerva's flat was located in. It was a beautiful, old red-bricked house with white arches over the windows and Minerva had already grown quite fond of it. The East End and especially Whitechapel was not a desirable area by anyone's standards, but finances were tight and the promise of Tom living nearby had been too good to pass up on. Tom had picked this flat out for her and she had let him, knowing that he knew his way around here far better than she did.

When she took a look at him, he had turned away, looking inscrutably into the dense London fog still covering the street. "Would you like to have a cup of coffee with me?"

Tom smirked. "I would love to," he merely replied. This cup of coffee had become a ritual between them, a sort of easily-decipherable synonym for all the afternoons Tom spent at Minerva's flat, dozing in the summer silence, while she feverishly read books and papers in order to be prepared for her job requirements as well as she could be. They had spent many hours that way; Minerva scribbling furiously while Tom was sprawled over the narrow bed, the sunshine spread out lazily over his face while the shadows of clouds danced through the small room.

Sometimes Minerva would look up and Tom would give her a quiet smirk or he wouldn't react all, having slipped into a light doze. She let him, knowing that the Orphanage was tight on money and regard for its orphans' well-being these days. With all the war orphans needing a home, Miss Cole had started to pack even more children into one room. So while she didn't like Tom spending nights out, she had come to tolerate it grudgingly.

* * *

Minerva's landlady had been beside herself with horror at the thought of a young man spending the night in a young Lady's room, but Tom had sweet-talked her into believing that they were an orphaned pair of siblings.

She practically hung upon every of his words now.

Feeling Tom's questioning look on her, Minerva was abruptly brought back to the present. "Ah," she said, waving a nonchalant hand, "I was just thinking of how you persuaded Miss Wilkins to let you stay the nights."  
Tom's smirk turned darkly devious. "That was brilliant, wasn't it?" he asked smugly.

Minerva just sighed, muttering: "You are unbelievable."  
Tom's smug smirk widened. "I know," he shouted over the din a rattling carriage behind them on the cobblestone street was making.

"But you love me anyway."

Minerva didn't deign him with an answer and instead ascended the narrow wooden staircase leading to her flat. The stairwell was narrow and very dim and smelled distinctly of old, rotten wood. They passed Miss Wilkins, whose frown worsened when she saw Minerva but abruptly lifted when she saw Tom. She even tugged a few of her greying strands back into her bun and straightened her flowery skirts.

"Good afternoon, Miss Wilkins," Tom said and Minerva echoed him, watching how Miss Wilkins turned a furious shade of fuchsia and stammered some words of greeting before quickly passing them.

Minerva unlocked the door of her flat, while Tom beside her snorted. "These Muggles…"he said with disgust lacing his smooth baritone. "I still wonder why you decided to live among them…"

She put her keys onto the kitchen table and hung her coat up, before turning to face him. "I already told you, Tom, I wish to-"

"-learn how Muggles live in order to understand them better, as you were, different to me, brought up in a Wizard household," he finished with a bored flourish, removing his dark hat and hanging it next to her coat onto the rack. Looking at that coat rack Minerva felt for a moment that they had established a surprisingly married-couples-like routine.

Tom next plopped down on the chair at the kitchen table and watched how she resolutely put a frying pan on the coal range. "You'll burn the eggs," he pointed out in a sing-song voice and Minerva glared at him, feeling some of her previous irritation returning.

"I won't!" she snapped.

He sighed and removed his jacket, rolling his sleeves up to his elbows. "Let me do it."

Wide-eyed, Minerva looked at him, as he professionally cracked the eggs open and added cheese and bacon to the mix.

"What?" he asked as he became aware of her look.

Minerva thought of Andrew, who for all his progressiveness, still proved rather backwards when it came to all things domestic, Poppy's former boyfriend William, and, with a slight pang of her father- they all would be or would have been hopeless in the kitchen. She opened her mouth and closed it, then sighed, resigned. "I am surprised at your cooking skills."

Tom snorted darkly. "Because I am a man? You try growing up in an orphanage sometime," was his taciturn answer and Minerva did not probe further.

Instead she watched how he pushed back a fringe of black hair that had fallen into his eyes and how he nimbly cut up some tomatoes with his pale long hands to add them to their meal. For a moment, the image of the coat rack came back into her mind and she thought further…to a larger flat, maybe a house and a garden, a room for the children to play in- she had never been overly domestically-minded, but she could not deny that the prospect of this house, in ten years or so, did stir something inside of her.

Tom cursed filthily as some of the hot fat splashed on his hand. With an annoyed sound, he brought the hand to his mouth. Brought abruptly back to the present, Minerva blinked against the burning in her eyes. Some things were not worth dwelling upon because they would never happen.

* * *

**Minerva's flat, Whitechapel, London, August 1943  
**

"Those tomatoes? Fresh from Diagon Alley, bought yesterday?"

Wrenched out of her musings by that question, Minerva needed a moment to gather her wits and followed his look to the bundle of tomatoes hanging on a hook embedded in the soot-blackened wall next to the ancient hearth. "Oh, yes, yes, sure."

Tom nodded and, without another word, dug into their shared meal- cooked by Minerva this time, and not half-bad, she amended defiantly to herself.

After their meal, Tom's eyes were alight with a strange gleam as he looked at Minerva. "You wanted to know how Muggles live?" he asked sharply.

"I-" Minerva began, but he cut her off.

"Come on." In slight consternation, Minerva watched how Tom grabbed a bundle of the tomatoes she had purchased the morning before in Diagon Alley. He looked extraordinarily satisfied for a moment and turned to the door. "Well, come on! What are you waiting for?"

She had to run to keep up with him. Outside, night had fallen over the city and to Minerva's relief, there was considerably less fog than a week ago. Their footfall still seemed extraordinarily loud as they walked through backstreet after backstreet, passing the rubble of some destroyed houses as they went. Minerva cursed herself for the heels she wore for the sound of her steps seemed to be magnified three times.

Eventually, they walked into a narrow alley. It was dark and damp and the houses seemed to lean into each other. A few streetlamps flickered dimly.

A toothless vagrant smiled up at them from a doorstep, his clothes in tatters. "Got a penny, mate?"

"Not for you," Tom said curtly and pushed past him.

The vagrant grabbed a hold of Minerva's sleeve when she wanted to pass him. "But you, pretty Lady, you sure 'ave one, no?"

In a flash, Tom had pushed the old man away from Minerva, hissing: "You keep your filthy hands off the Lady!"

Defeated, the vagrant sank down to the ground, raising his dirty hands. "'S alright, mate. No need to be like that."

A strange glint entered Tom's midnight eyes for the second time that day, but it was completely different to the gleam he'd had in his eyes before. A cruel smirk curled the corners of his mouth. "Or maybe I should teach you a completely different lesson…" he whispered. In this moment, Minerva feared him.

"Tom!" she said urgently.

He seemed to snap back to his senses at that. His smirk turned charming. "Don't concern yourself with him, Minerva. I bet he has stolen half of his earns today."

"That's no reason for you to be like that!" Minerva exclaimed, livid.

The smile abruptly vanished and he inclined his head. "You're right. Let's go."

Without a further word, he swept away, leaving Minerva to gather up her skirts and hurry after him. Through the light bluish mist covering the alley, they could hear the hoarse shout of the vagrant: "Bloody nutters!"

When they left the alley, they reached a tiny square with a small park, surrounded by an black iron fence. Tom knocked at the window of the right corner house. It was a small, narrow house with red bricks. A small lantern hung outside and flickered unsteadily, as an icy gust of air came blowing. She would have been warier in such an area normally, but angry as she was Minerva caught Tom's elbow.

"What was all that about?" she hissed angrily.

"Not now," Tom replied impatiently, his voice quieter than usual.

As if on cue, the window opened, revealing a man with a worn-out black flat cap, a badly-shaved beard and wearied dark eyes. His white shirt and vest were, though obviously old and worn, very well-cared for. Small leather patches had been sewn on the shirt's cuffs.

"What do you have?" he asked in a heavy Cockney accent.

Tom dangled the bundle of tomatoes from his thumb. "This."

The man's eyes remained dull. "Very well. What do you want?"

"What do I get? I don't need food."

"Not much," the man said. "We got tomatoes from the Americans a few days ago. There is not much demand for 'em. Still, for this you can get a vest or a pen or-"

"I'll take the vest," Tom cut him off and the man handed him a black vest through the window. "Now go," he said harshly, "we reckon there might be trouble later tonight. Wouldn't want to have you seen 'ere."  
Tom nodded and without another word, grabbed Minerva's hand and tugged her yet again into another maze of back alleys.

Minerva's irritation with him bubbled over. "Tom!" she hissed urgently and stopped him in front of a shop that was recognisable as that of a cigar box maker, as evident by the exhibits in his display window, showcasing advertisements of old, moustached men who enjoyed a cigar while sitting on a bench and gazing contentedly over the Thames to the Houses of Parliament.

"What is the matter with you?"

Tom laughed mirthlessly and finally turned to face her. "I am merely showing you how the Muggles live. You know why he's so nervous? The police investigates all Black Market activities or suspects regularly. They say it's against the law. Yet then again everyone does it. How on earth would you scrape by on only the government-issued food coupons and clothes' coupons anyway? Besides-"

"Tom Riddle!"

He froze, stopping in the middle of a sentence and whirled around. An elderly Lady was coming up to them through the night from a side street, wheeling a rickety bicycle. Her watery grey eyes peered at them closely through her thick glasses perched on her nose. A grey bun adorned her head, hidden beneath an old-fashioned hat.

"The small Tom Riddle from Wool's. That is you, isn't it?"

A small sneer curled Tom's lips at being referred to as "small".

"Mrs. Hurst. We haven't seen you around here in years," was all he said.

She put him off. "Oh well, I've moved to Shoreditch when I remarried. I'm merely here to visit my daughter. But this is you, isn't it? Tom Riddle."

He sighed nearly imperceptibly. "Yes, Mrs. Hurst."

"So where is that friend of yours? The red-haired one? Jackie, I believe? Used to run around with you for years back in '36."

Tom's lips thinned and his whole face transformed into an expressionless mask. "Galloping consumption."

"Oh well, dearie, I am sorry." She patted Tom's shoulder sympathetically, who went as stiff as a board. "Unfortunately we have to go now. Good-bye, Mrs. Hurst," he pressed out and tugged Minerva none-too-gently away. Mrs. Hurst stared after them, eyes wide in incomprehension.

Once again Minerva stopped Tom with a decisive hand on his arm once they had rounded the corner and turned into another small street, which read "Princelet Street".

"Who was Jackie?"

"Someone I used to know," Tom replied tersely.

Minerva sighed. "So do you feel like telling me what has you in such a wonderful mood today?" Tom, however, remained stubbornly silent, the hard look in his eyes telling her that he would not volunteer any information. She turned away from him, biting her lip. The narrow streets and the red-bricked houses reaching up so much higher than the little Scottish Highland cottages suffocated her and she longed for the green of the Scottish Highlands. Tom on the other hand seemed to blend in with his surroundings and not for the first time, Minerva felt that he was truly a child of this city. At Hogwarts he was much more approachable, but here the city's old bricks and cold walls seemed to have seeped into his heart, making him warier and less carefree, or, like today, irritable.

She felt oddly defeated and drained. Maybe she had been too eager to live the Muggle way and had been too confident, too arrogant in her ways. Maybe Tom was right about that. She had no desire to join in the queues waiting in front of the grocery shops and bakeries every morning, brandishing a food ration coupon. Did that make her hypocritical? The answer was just another maybe.

"I am going home," she announced. Tom made no move to hold her back. He simply stood there and gazed after her until she rounded a corner. Minerva bit her lip and tightened her hold on the fir wand, getting ready to brave the streets of Whitechapel on her own.

* * *

**St. Mary's Park, Near Wool's Orphanage, Whitechapel, London, 20th August, 1943**

"I wish you wouldn't come to the Orphanage to visit me." Tom sounded irritated and looking at him, Minerva could see that a frown was marring his handsome face. The sun had come out on this day and warmed people's faces, illuminating the red brick houses and conjured beautiful shadow patterns onto the street as it fell through the dense foliage of the tree the two of them were currently leaning on.

"Why?" she asked. "Is this because of propriety? Because, frankly, Tom, I couldn't give less than half a knut's worth on-"

"This is not about propriety," Tom hissed. A sneer contorted his face and his eyes were glaring daggers at her. Their argument after their visit to the Black Market was still fresh on their minds. They hadn't seen each other for days afterwards, as Minerva had been busy and Tom simply had not shown up to visit her. Tom had been irritable for weeks at this point, and Minerva was willing to bet that this was not because he didn't want her to get him from the orphanage.

Maliciously, he spat: "I can see that someone of your standing would not understand what it is like to live in an orphanage. We are the lowest rung of society after all."

"Tom!" Minerva said, appalled. His sharp, unfriendly tone made her clasp a hand in front of her mouth. She pressed her mouth to a thin line and willed the tears that came unbidden to her eyes not to fall, turning away from him.

She heard him sigh behind her. "Minerva…Look, I am sorry."

He stepped past her and carefully tugged her hands away from her face. A belligerent tear made its way out of her eye and trailed down her cheek. Tom wiped it away with his thumb, an oddly sweet gesture compared to his violent exclamations not a minute before, and tugged her into a hug. Minerva held onto him tightly, fearing that not much was needed to get him started off in one of his horrible moods again. But Tom merely sighed again and rested his head on hers.

"Dolohov invited me for the weekend to his parents' home in Shropshire," he mumbled. "I'll be returning on Monday. Hopefully this weekend will finally produce results."

"What results?" Minerva asked, her voice muffled by his jacket.

A small sliver of excitement stole into his voice. "Our plans to reform the wizard world are finally taking shape."

"Tom," she said, finally stepping away from him. "I still do not understand why you think the wizard world needs reforms that badly."  
"Oh," he replied, his midnight eyes gleaming in his pale face. "Wouldn't you agree that there are too many prejudices in the contemporary wizard world? Werewolves, for example, are forced into hiding merely because they are said to be dark creatures. They are not even given a chance at life. At day they are human beings like me and you. They are merely misunderstood."

Minerva was too exhausted to argue. "I wish you would be less revolutionary," she told him.

"What do you want me to be?" he asked, but there was no ire in his voice. "A loving husband and father, who comes home from work every day and tucks his children in at night? Reads stories to them? Takes you out to dinner sometime?" An oddly bitter note crept into his voice. "I've never known what such a family is like so what makes you think I would be able to be that kind of man?"

She sensed that he was honest this time and reached up to brush some of the sun-flecked black hair out of his face. "I wouldn't want you to become someone else. I just want the old Tom back. You never were that callous with me."

He didn't reply, instead he captured her lips in a long, intense kiss.

Then he met her eyes firmly: "I promise you, Minerva, when I return from Dolohov all will be better. You will see. This weekend will resolve everything."

Minerva felt alarmed, instead of reassured. "What is going to happen this weekend?"

"Everything will be alright," he soothed, but she wasn't about to be deterred.

"I have a bad feeling about this, Tom. Please tell me what is going on."

But Tom kissed her hand and she knew she wouldn't get anything from him. "I'll come by on Monday," he said and kissed her fleetingly. "I've got to go and get my things. Dolohov will drop by in an hour to fetch me."

Minerva nodded and felt a twinge of guilt at what she was going to do, but she knew she had to, for she had a feeling that something horrible was going to happen this weekend. Tom wasn't telling her everything. Starting with her wrist burning, something he always put off as "You and your vivid sense of imagination", the entire Hagrid incident and ending with his secretive and irritable behaviour the last weeks it all formed a very disturbing overall picture. So there was no way she was going to let him go alone this weekend. If Dolohov was there to fetch him then all would be well. But if not…then he was lying to her and she needed to find out what he was up to.

She took a deep breath, plastered an insincere smile on her face and said with as much conviction as she could muster: "Alright then, Tom, but please be careful."

He seemed pleased with her answer and with another kiss and a few good-bye words he was gone. Minerva waited for some minutes and then followed him.

* * *

Of course he had known that she would follow him. It was a bit disappointing to see that did though. When Antonin came to fetch him, hands buried in his pockets as he nonchalantly waited for Tom in front of the iron gates, Minerva departed. Tom hadn't been lying when he had told her that Antonin Dolohov was the one he'd spend the weekend with.

Part of Tom wished that he could just come out and tell her everything, though he knew it was still too early. She was still too involved in daily life, had too much contact to people she cared about…

No, he needed to isolate her, make her become dependent on him and only on _him_ before telling her all about his plans. Tom had grand plans for their future, nay, for the future of the entire wizard world! No-one would ever tell him again what to do and what not to do. No Professor Dumbledores, no Miss Coles, no Bobbies.

Deep in thought, he made his way down the mouldy staircase and nearly ran into the one he had been thinking of before. The Matron's hard features were stony as she gazed at him.

"Where are you going? Did you forget that we are to go to the Friday service today?"

Tom laughed freely. "Make me."

Paling, she backed away. Tom smirked and walked through the front doors. Antonin greeted him with a nod and they walked on to the nearest tube station. For far too long he had been influenced by others. It was time to dig deeper now, to search for more knowledge, to gain enlightenment through knowledge. He did not only strive to gain knowledge for power's sake, nor did he seek to gain it for its own sake, but more in order to realise, to understand, to comprehend. Quite a scholarly approach, come to think of it.

As they arrived at Victoria Station and found the train that would carry them onwards to Hove, East Sussex, Antonin immediately settled down in their compartment that was thankfully empty and closed his eyes.

Tom looked out of the window and watched as the city scenery of London gave way to fields and sloping hills. Trees and houses rushed by. He allowed his thoughts to return to his earlier ponderings. Of course he also strove for power. Power and wielding power could be looked at scientifically as well- how curious and intriguing to have others bend to one's will, how _intoxicating_…

The plans he had were grand and he could not wait to set them into motion- with Minerva at his side. But there was something- or rather someone- whom he had to take care of beforehand.

How dare a filthy Muggle man share _his _name, _his _face, _his _blood!

Oh, he had found out more about the man as soon as he had found out where he lived. Finding out that had cost him time perusing Muggle newspapers and telephone directories, months of perusing them actually- and then there had been this name that had popped up time and time again.

A man by the name of Thomas Riddle lived with his parents in Little Hangleton, a remote part of Hangleton, which in turn belonged to the town of Hove, located in the County of East Sussex. The regional newspaper, the _Evening Argus_, had offered him insights into the man's circumstances. He had nearly gagged once he had seen his own face looking back at him from a black-and-white-photograph, a bit older, a bit less-cared-for, but his own face nonetheless!

Abraxas Malfoy surely would have nodded in understanding if Tom were to say that he hated the man for his blood. Dirty blood. A Muggle.

However, and Tom didn't like admitting that part to himself, saying that Tom's hate for this man stemmed from this factor would be wrong.

It was six-year-old Tom, who had received blows from the Minister's cane with no-one to comfort him who hated the man, yet yearned for him all the same.

Eight-year-old Tom, who had been called _freak_ and had been abused by his peers and the adults all the same, hated with fiercer intensity, when he found out from the Matron's records, what the man was called and the fact that his mother had been alone at Tom's birth- alone and dying.

But ten-year-old Tom's hatred for the man was even greater. First- the desperate hope, when Professor Dumbledore had informed him of his being a wizard; maybe the man- and dare he think it, _Father_- was a wizard too and he'd fought many battles and then had been imprisoned by Dark wizards, unable to get to his son…but Tom would find him and then his father would lift him in the air with strong arms, a warm smile curving his mouth.

But as soon as he had come to Hogwarts and started looking in the records he found out who was the magical parent and who was not. How it had hurt to find out that his father was just a dirty nobody _Muggle_, who had left his mother in the time of her greatest need, a _Muggle_ just like the ones who had so delighted in tormenting Tom all those years.

Fourteen-year-old Tom finally knew the whole truth and only the hatred remained.

And now- now in this summer of his sixteenth year, he would finally get to see the man, though Tom doubted he would be received warmly. But why should he care?

The man had long ago proven his worthlessness by leaving Tom's weak mother to die alone.

* * *

A gentle snort wrenched him out of his thoughts and he looked away from the quickly-passing English landscape that he had watched with unseeing eyes to his companion.

Antonin had dozed off, a book clutched against his chest, slumped limply in his seat, snoring gently. He seemed exhausted and Tom suspected that Antonin's lengthy trips to visit his girlfriend Poppy in Bath were taking their toll on him. Shrewsbury wasn't that close to Bath after all and Antonin had probably spent all of his meagre savings already for the train tickets. Tom quirked a mirthless smile at that thought.

He tapped Dolohov sharply on his right knee and smirked a bit nastily when the other jerked away harshly.

"Good morning," Tom offered nonchalantly.

Antonin grumbled something, shot Tom, when he though the other wasn't looking a sleepy glare and wiped his dark hair out of his eyes. "Where are we?" he asked hoarsely.

"Just passed Hassocks rail station," Tom replied taciturnly.

Antonin nodded and then looked awkwardly at his hands, not looking at Tom. The afternoon sun fell into their compartment in deep golden slates, illuminating their faces in a deep orange light. Antonin hesitated for a while and then suddenly burst out:

"I don't think you should go alone, Tom."

Tom quirked an eyebrow at him. "I told you," he stated coolly, "I have some business to attend to. Alone. I can look after myself."

Antonin was reluctant, but he nodded and sighed, eventually turning back to his book. He knew better than to argue with Tom, for he didn't want to end in his Lord's bad graces. Tom was lenient with him anyway; why was beyond Antonin's understanding.

Tom, however, did not seem to be finished with the conversation.

"What are you reading? Give it to me," he commanded abruptly and tugged the book out of Antonin's hands.

"Immanuel Kant, huh? What happened to Blake's poetry and collected works?"

Antonin was unsure whether it had been a rhetorical question or not but he finally replied drily: "There is only so much one can read about sacred natural love and mythological theological theories without getting violent tendencies."

To his surprise, Tom chuckled shortly at his words. "Now I remember why I have taken you along, Antonin," was all he said.

Antonin, though others might have been insulted, felt honoured to have Tom's regard. Tom for him was a visionary, someone to follow and admire.

Tom on the other hand appreciated Antonin's inquisitive streak, for while he weighed his own actions and thoughts carefully, a second intelligent opinion was always direly needed. He wasn't about to tell that to Antonin though, no need to make Dolohov feel even more special.

"So what does he say?" he asked boredly, surveying the German philosopher's theories on enlightenment:

"_Enlightenment is man's emergence from his self-imposed immaturity. Immaturity is the inability to use one's understanding without guidance from another. This immaturity is self-imposed when its cause lies not in lack of understanding, but in lack of resolve and courage to use it without guidance from another. __Sapere Aude__! [dare to know] "Have courage to use your own understanding!"-that is the motto of enlightenment."_

"I found it fascinating," Antonin interjected, his eyes gleaming rather fanatically. "Isn't it in the end what everyone should strive for? Independent decisions without being influenced by anyone or anything?"

Tom leaned back and thought about Antonin's words. Enlightenment?

"It is, Antonin. But most people do not strive for enlightenment or understanding. The wizard world and the system that has been enforced on them leaves them in darkness, suppressing their magic. We are not Muggles and neither should we be in any way connected to them. No wizard should be depending on a Muggle."

Shadows passed over Antonin's face at that and Tom knew that he was remembering his own unsavoury past with Muggles. When Tom thought about the Muggle he was about to visit his own fury nearly threatened to overwhelm him and his resolve had never been greater.

"So you say that we are the ones, who are enlightened because we question the system." Antonin looked out at the early evening scenery flying by outside.

Tom felt exceptionally proud of him. "We are. However, there is one question that even I can't answer and neither can you." When Antonin's mossy green eyes snapped back to him at that, Tom elaborated: "Death."

"But that does not constitute a real hindrance," Antonin protested much to Tom's surprise.

"No?" he arched an eyebrow. "So you do know what comes afterwards, Antonin?"

Antonin's green eyes gleamed worryingly, nearly feverish. "We will conquer it," he said simply. "What is death when we have established a society of purity and equality? Only magic, with no Muggles allowed in it. A society, wherein the high ideals of old are held in high esteem once again. The question of death is meaningless, we shall overcome it, _devour_ it-"

"Eat it," Tom interjected with a smile. At Antonin's questioning look, Tom's smile widened. "I appreciate your enthusiasm, Antonin, but devouring death is much too complicated a term. You forget we are also dealing with simple minds. Death Eaters."

Antonin's wide, fanatical smile told Tom all he wanted to know. He leaned back in his seat and thought about the cruel twist of irony that a text by Immanuel Kant, aimed at man's reason and self-governance, had brought them to this.

Tom did not approve of anarchy. Neither Muggles nor wizards could ever govern themselves. To put it in Thomas Hobbes' words, _homo homini lupus est_- man was a wolf to his fellow man. They needed someone to put them into place, someone to show them the right path. Tom had always known that he could be the one to do so.

Later, as Antonin was waiting for Tom in a local pub, the day faded in red and blue hues. It was the last sunset Thomas Riddle senior was ever going to see in his life, though he did not know it yet, as he opened the door of his home and looked at a face that seemed so similar to his, yet so different too for its blue eyes were infused with a cold look that spoke of death.

Tom twirled his wand between his fingers and smirked coldly at the horrified look on the Muggle's face.

"Hello, Father."

* * *

_tbc_

_Annotation: _

_1. Rationing of food and clothes but also of articles such as furniture began in Britain in 1940 and ended for some things only in 1954. Source: history(dot)co(dot)uk- World War 2- British Home Front  
_


	29. 1943 Part VIII

_Hey everyone! Thank you for your great reviews,** Sara, iviscrit, Kate, Sarafina, Sherbet** and _**_IantosStopwatch!_**_Sorry it took me so long to update, life has been hectic, and it is now, too, which is why you might find some mistakes in this chapter. I apologise for them, I did proof-read it, of course, but I didn't have much time, unfortunately. Uni has me back in its clutches ;-) In this chapter you will encounter some fabulous creatures, have fun reading it :) _

_Oh and I did some shameless story-promoting in this chapter. "Jackie" is a character from a oneshot of mine, Honesty's Worth. You don't have to read it to understand this chapter though. There is also some wonderful poetry of William Blake in this chapter, which I absolutely claim no ownership to.  
_

_Sachita_** ;-)  
**

* * *

**Chapter Twenty-Eight  
**

**Minerva's flat, Whitechapel, London, August**** 29th ****, 1943**

Autumn was making itself known in the streets of London, as the last vestiges of summer slowly faded. An uncomfortable wetness hung in the streets and icy winds made the people shiver and huddle deeper into their coats. Expressions slowly soured, as everyone's mood adjusted to the darkness and cold that autumn introduced once again; and they all knew that it was just an introduction to the coming winter.

1943 had been a devastating year in terms of well-being of the people- the war was becoming grimmer as bombs fell on the German city of Hamburg, causing devastating firestorms, while Sicily was being invaded and the Danish government was being dissolved, another reminder of the conquered countries' helplessness. Messages of death and blood reached London daily- other than that, food was becoming scarcer and talks of a new attack on the city caused a sombre, fearful atmosphere in the streets.

This late August day fit the mood perfectly: the few bedraggled war bond advertisements hung limply on the advertising columns, drenched from the heavy downpour. Evening was falling and the few people that were outside hurried home, hidden underneath dark umbrellas. A few dogs barked in the distance.

Minerva shivered and turned away from the kitchen window of her small flat, drawing the curtains tightly shut, before fixing the woollen black fabric on the window frame into place. Ever since the official blackout policy had been introduced by the government at the beginning of the war, people had to cover their windows at night so that eventual bombers would have a harder time finding a target. Also, cars' traffic lights were blacked out and streetlights were not being turned on. This had led to a good few accidents over the last years.

A knock on the door made Minerva start.

* * *

"Minerva, it's me," Tom's voice came, rather muffled by the heavy entrance door.

When she opened the door, she was greeted by a spray of water and a sneeze from Tom.

"You look horrid," she greeted dryly.

"Fancy seeing you too," Tom returned snidely and pushed the black fringe of wet hair away from his pale forehead. Despite her casual words of greetings, Minerva looked at him with quiet concern. Ever since Tom had returned from his outing with Dolohov, he had become increasingly withdrawn, irritable and tired-looking. The black circles under his eyes were telling.

"Look," he announced with some pride and held out a candle, a bottle of wine, and two glasses. "I had to use my best bartering skills for these, but tonight, we shan't be miserable."

"That's great," she returned, still somewhat distracted by his appearance.

"Great?" he asked, a bit insulted. "I was brilliant!"

Minerva stifled a smile. "Alright, then, Tom, you were brilliant. Now, why don't you take your coat off?" She couldn't help her fussing, seeing that he was drenched from head to toe. "Couldn't have bartered for an umbrella, could you?" she muttered as she helped him out of his coat, shirt and dark slacks. Only clad in his long white undergarments, so characteristic for all men of their time, Tom accepted the proffered blanket without complaint.

He made an almost endearing picture, wrapped in the red-chequered blanket, white undershirt just peaking out, hair still tousled, but Minerva held her tongue wisely and lit the candle. Tom poured the wine in their glasses and leaned back on the plain wooden bench at Minerva's kitchen table. After he'd done so, the lights in Minerva's flat went out, leaving the room shrouded in darkness except for the small flickering light the candle on the table was providing.

"Another blackout," Tom mused. "I wonder whether they've planned this. Now that we've covered up all our windows, they still want to make sure that everything is dark."

"Nonsense," Minerva snorted, taking a sip of her wine. "You do take this a little too far."

"Maybe I do," Tom said softly. "Maybe I don't."

He held his wine glass against the light of the candle. "What are we all striving to do, anyway? Here we are, preserving our unimportant lives, protesting against the harsh reality of it all. It's futile, isn't it?"

"What are you questioning, Tom?" Minerva asked. "Are you asking whether life is worth living or not?"

"I am not," Tom protested. His eyes gleamed oddly. "I am of the firm opinion that nothing is worth as much as life. Yet," he continued disdainfully, "when I look at all those people in the streets, in London, in this country, the world….what are they doing with their lives? Trying to find the next scrape of bread so they might live another day of their pathetic existence? Why do they not try to do something great, something lasting, and something that distinguishes them from the mass?"

"They are trying to achieve happiness, Tom," Minerva pointed out firmly. "Is striving for happiness not what everyone should try to do?"

"Happiness," Tom scoffed. The small flame of the candle threw strange shadows on his face, making his cheeks appear hollow and gaunt. "Happiness is an illusion. It comes and goes with the wind." He brushed a feather-like finger over her cheeks and, while Minerva shivered- in pleasure and discomfort both-, went on rather detachedly:

" A mass of proteins, held together by muscles and bones. But we do not merely consist of that, do we? We are more than that. So why should we waste our life-forces merely concentrating on our basic, material instincts? Producing offspring and living a family life in a disgustingly stereotypical bourgeois neighbourhood? Really?" He laughed snidely, coldly.

"You're distorting reality," Minerva accused fiercely. "It's not only about these things, Tom, it's about friendship, love, laughter, and making each moment amount to something worth remembering."

Tom reclined on the bench, twirling his wine glass in his hand, gazing at her levelly with hard midnight eyes. "You are being serious?" he questioned disdainfully. "True, those are all things the common man indulges himself in: earning a living, struggling with bonds he likes to refer to as _friendships_, raising his descendants, and, giving in to his baser urges…"

He gazed predatorily up and down her long pale legs. Minerva followed his eyes and saw that her knee-length skirt had ridden up to her thighs. She suppressed a pleased shiver, hating her reaction to his scrutiny after the disdainful words he had just spoken. An almost cruel smirk curled the corners of his mouth.

"Such meaningless, empty ways to spend one's life with, although I do profess to a certain inclination to give in to my baser urges as well…" His look was now definitely lewd, and, inwardly defeated, Minerva gave in.

* * *

At breakfast, Tom seemed a little less glum and macabre-minded than the evening before. He spread too much butter on his bread for Minerva's tastes, but that was just one of his little oddities that she had come to get used to. The more butter on a piece of bread, the happier it made him. She wondered if that obsession with _more_ was a product of his upbringing.

Tom's eyes were flickering unsteadily though and he still seemed tired, his pallor more pronounced than usual. His skin had a waxy look to it.

"Tom," Minerva said without thinking, "you should sleep more. You don't look well."

He barked out a short laugh, as if something she'd said amused him tremendously. At her inquiry after it, Tom merely shrugged and continued to eat his buttered bread.

"I never knew you to be such a mother hen, Minnie," he smirked finally.

"Don't call me Minnie," Minerva jabbed back half-heartedly, only because she knew that he had been waiting for this reply. Sensing that he was more likely to be open with her in such an informal early morning setting, she set out to her task of finding out what was going with him. His irritable mood had not vanished over that weekend he'd spent with Dolohov, instead it had been growing worse, and Minerva was just about at the end of her rope.

The name _Jackie _had been dancing through her thoughts, ever since the old woman they'd encountered a few weeks ago, Mrs. Hurst, had mentioned it. After all these years Tom knew more of Minerva than she knew of him, and she was desperate to understand more, if only to know why he was behaving the way he was now. She wanted the old Tom back, the sarcastic one, the cold one, yes, but the one who would at times let his guard down when with her.

"Who was Jackie, Tom?"

The question caught him off-guard, he froze, the bread half-way to his mouth and a surprised look in his midnight eyes.

"I told you already," he eventually said stiffly, putting the piece of bread down, "somebody that I used to know."  
Minerva took his hand that was lying limply on the table, and pressed a kiss on it, desperate for information because she felt that Jackie could help her understand Tom and his problems better.

Tom sighed and looked as if he was weighing alternatives in his mind of a few moments. Then he answered cryptically: "A past acquaintance of mine."

The formality of his words was telling to Minerva, as was the London lilt, that brushed more markedly over his words- the matter rather upset him.

"A good friend of yours," she pressed on.

"He's been dead since 1936, Minerva," Tom replied darkly.

"You can trust me," Minerva whispered, pouring all the love she felt for him in her words. "You can trust me, Tom."

He regarded her impassively for long moments and then got to his feet rather abruptly, fetching his hat from the coat rack and holding out her coat. "Come on then."

"Where are we going?" Minerva asked, instantly on her guard.

"Relax," he smirked in amusement and brushed some dust spots from her coat. "You wanted to know about Jackie. Maybe it's about time you trust me some more, if I am supposed to trust you."

* * *

Warily, Minerva nodded, and followed him into afternoon London, buried underneath a thin film of wet fog.

The few trees at the sides of the street were starting to lose their leaves and the brown mass of wet foliage on the ground made Minerva almost slip and fall as she hurried after Tom.

They didn't have to walk for long. Tom stopped at a black iron gate surrounding a badly-cared for cemetery.

"Come on," he muttered.

Minerva didn't reply, but continued to watch him discreetly as he led the way along half-overgrown tombstones, revealing barely legible names of people long since-passed in history. Behind one of those tombstones, right next to a sagging stone wall was a patch of earth. Ivy vines grew along the wall and crawled over the ground, but someone had cut them, so the patch of earth remained undisturbed.

A row of stones had been clumsily put around the patch of earth and a bunch of red and white flowers grew on it.

"You put the flowers on the grave?" Minerva asked and knelt down in front of the little grave.

"I did. He was always rather small for his age, so they didn't have to dig a big hole," Tom commented detachedly. "No one knew whether he'd been christened or not, so a Lady of the neighbourhood and myself buried him here. She paid the casket, because she was always rather fond of Jackie."

Gazing up to him, Minerva found that Tom, in that moment, looked unusually vulnerable. His mask had cracked and left a rather desolate look in his eyes. Careful, not to snap him out of the trance that he had seemingly fallen into, she went on:

"What was he like? Jackie, I mean?"

Tom's smile was distant, as if it belonged to a different time period, a different person even.

"He was rather extroverted. Cheeky, as a result of him living on the streets. But kind-hearted, too. Foolishly so even, always caring for everyone and for anything…"

His eyes snapped back to hers and Minerva found that maybe she had to remedy her earlier opinion of him being lost in thoughts. Maybe he was a lot more attentive than she'd given him credit for.

"His kind-heartedness didn't help him though. He nevertheless died." Some old, long-simmering anger tainted his words. "If I'd known back then, I hadn't been forced to live in that dingy orphanage, if only I'd known of the possibilities of Wizard healing…he would have never died of something as mundane as galloping consumption. But these- these Muggles-" in his anger he stumbled over the word- "being as primitive as they are could not do anything. Why would they, anyway? Homeless children don't amount for anything in their eyes anyway."

"They do theoretically have orphanages, obviously," Minerva pointed out firmly. "It's not like they don't care for homeless children."

Tom gave her a flat look. "In theory, maybe." He stormed out of the cemetery, leaving Minerva with no other choice but to give Jackie's grave another glance and then follow him.

* * *

Tom didn't stop all the way to the river and then leaned on the parapet of the bridge that they had reached, breathing hard.

"The orphanage," he repeated and turned around to Minerva, eyes still glittering with cold anger.

"I've lost count of the times they've beaten me senseless. Once I tried to run away and it was especially bad. They broke my arm that day. I was nine, Minerva, nine!"

Minerva felt her eyes sting as she listened. "Why didn't you try again?"

A cold breeze came from the Thames and made her shiver. The dead leaves on the ground danced a macabre, silent dance. Tom looked away and was quiet for some moments.

Eventually he said roughly: "Street children in the '30s had a hard time. I didn't want to die on a nameless street."

Minerva shivered as she tried to imagine what it must have been like for him and put a hand on his arm. "Tom…"

He smiled bleakly, his midnight eyes bitter and lost in old memories. "Don't worry about it. It's been a long time ago, though I hope that you now understand why I hate Muggles so much."

Minerva bit her lip, but she knew that she had to speak out, because that statement touched her principles, and if anything, Minerva McGonagall had always been a principled person.

"Not all Muggles are like that."

Tom's anger flared up more than she would have expected. "Do not question me, Minerva! Or-"

"Or what, Tom?" Minerva asked , glaring intensely at him, some of her own anger back. "What happened that weekend with Dolohov, Tom? You've not been yourself since then."

"Myself?" he interrupted, eyes gleaming. "What exactly is that supposed to mean, anyway?"

"For one, you would not blow up at me like that," Minerva pointed out, firmly standing her ground, yet keeping her arms crossed, for Tom was intensity and fire and she needed to be like water if she was to resist effectively. "You have a temper, yes, but not an irrational one. What's happened to you, Tom?"

That question actually seemed to deter him and he dragged a hand through his raven locks. "Curious," he mused.

"Curious?" Minerva questioned.

His head snapped up- apparently she hadn't been meant to hear- and he drew up to his full height. Tom was quite tall and even though she was not of short height either, she still only reached to his shoulder. A full smile broke out on his face then; he even showed his teeth, a rarity for him. It seemed sincere.

"I apologise, Minerva, I truly do. It seems you have been right and I have not been myself lately. I shall attempt to change that."

A bit thrown off course, Minerva bit her lip, suddenly insecure. "Good," she commented warily.

Tom's smile only widened. "So, Minerva, I have put my trust in you. Will you tell me now why you don't trust me?"

Icy shivers ran down Minerva's spine as she thought frantically about what he could be talking about. Dumbledore's request that she spy on Tom from so long ago, was among her first guesses, then all the other things she hadn't told him about, whirled through her head. For some reason, her suspicions regarding her burning wrist and the Unbreakable Vow never crossed her mind in that moment and later she was grateful for that.

Tom lifted a teasing eyebrow, an incongruous gesture, for Minerva didn't really feel like being teased at the moment.  
"I am talking about you following me when I left with Dolohov, of course," he remarked casually.

Something that Poppy had told her once crossed her mind then. "You lied to me, too," she accused. "Dolohov lives in an orphanage in Shropshire, just like you. Poppy told me. So you couldn't have been at his parents'."

"Impressive," Tom merely said and the smug smirk never vanished. "Parry an attack with an attack of your own. Sometimes I do think you would have made a good Slytherin, Minnie."

Minerva, however, wanted answers. "Where have you been that weekend?"

"With Dolohov," he answered indifferently and if she hadn't been looking so closely, she would have missed the calculating glint in his eye.

"I know that," she snapped, "but where did you go to?"  
Another man would have maybe said that the activities of a man did not have to concern his Lady friend, but Tom had never differed between genders in that regard, and so he merely coolly lifted an eyebrow at her tone. "We've been to Shropshire, alright," he replied slowly and a touch disdainfully. "We talked about our plans for the reformation of the wizard world. We talked about practicing Dark Magic."

His tone had been playful, but Minerva caught the underlying seriousness. "Tom, you-"

"Yes, yes," he interrupted aggressively, his eyes glittering. "I swore an unbreakable vow not to hurt any innocents, I know. Have you, however, ever paused to consider that erecting a new form of government might not be seen as a desirable thing by some? These people have to be subdued in some manner. Who am I talking about? We do, de facto, have a kind of feudal structure in the wizard world at the moment. Members of our Highest Parliament, the Wizengamot, are being appointed by the Minister of Magic, who in turn allows his decisions to be influenced by powerful old families and lobbyist groups. How is that fair?"

He had spoken passionately, yet his eyes remained cold, as if the whole matter he spoke so ardently about did not reach his innermost feelings.

A cold breeze made Minerva shiver and her nose started to run, a result of the resident cold she carried around. "Excuse me," she muttered and fished for her hankie.

An amused snort by Tom made her look up once she was finished. A wry smirk was curling the corners of his thin lips and the faint breeze blew his strands of hair out his perfect features, as the midnight eyes sparkled with held-back laughter. Even though she was in the middle of a heated argument with him, Minerva found herself deflating, as she realised once again just how much he meant to her. Her breath caught in her throat at the thought.

"This would never happen in movies," Tom finally commented, motioning to Minerva's handkerchief. "Instead they would yell at each other endlessly-"

"-and in the end she'd be throwing a shoe at him," Minerva ended, amused in spite of herself.

Tom eyed her mock warily. "Should I be ducking for cover?" he inquired mildly.

"Do I look as if I would slip my shoes off while I am standing in a puddle of mud?" she inquired sarcastically.

"One never knows," he laughed.

* * *

Minerva's smile died slowly, when she turned to the river and rested her hands on the icy parapet of the bridge. A few coal steamers were making their way upstream. A few workers stood smoking near the soot-covered building of their factory, right at the river bank, conversing in hoarse voices that just reached them.

Most of them were grizzled figures with the usual flat caps and Minerva wondered whether they were content with their lives, as one of them started coughing heavily and didn't seem to be able to stop.

"Consumption," Tom commented quietly. "Bad wages, bad living conditions- they tend to favour that kind of illness."

Minerva looked at him and found that he was looking to be deep in thought. "Jackie had that kind of illness, too, didn't he?" she asked tentatively.

He nodded solemnly. "A horrible way to die. In the end, he was coughing up blood all the time. You lung slowly disintegrates, you see. Your chest hurts all the time and in the end you are so weak that you cannot get up. Some die of multiple organ failure."

"That's terrible," Minerva whispered and thought of Tom's friend, Jackie.

"Yes," he stated clinically, "another reason to see to it that inequality at least in our world is eradicated. The Muggles are beyond help anyway."

"And what is your solution?" Minerva challenged, spinning around so quickly that her braid flew around her and her peach-coloured skirts danced along with the motion. "A dictatorship? According to your theory earlier, you wish to subdue people, who have second thoughts about your government. Is that not the classical definition of an oppressive totalitarian regime?"

"Rather an authoritarian regime," he mused, "seeing that I have always found it a waste of time to infiltrate people's personal lives. That pureblood policy is balderdash." He abruptly changed topics.

"But seeing that I neither do aspire to become the new dictator in this country, but merely wish to change a few things and am planning to work at a shop for ancient artefacts for the next years, I do think it safe to say that we can drop politics for now. What I most ardently wish to understand at the moment is why you suddenly think practicing Dark Magic is not a problem."

He had an expression of genuine bemusement on his face and Minerva swayed coyly closer, deciding that two could play this game. "Why, Tom, darling," she cooed sickeningly sweetly, "I am well aware of your shenanigans."

"Are you now?" Tom asked and swallowed dryly when she pressed a kiss on his cheek.

"Besides," she continued, leaning back and ignoring his statement, "you swore an unbreakable vow to me, remember?"  
"I did," he admitted, coming closer himself now, until their faces were almost touching. "You have me wrapped around your little finger like no-one else, my dear," he whispered.

Minerva hid her burning wrist in her pocket and allowed him to kiss her for a moment, hiding all thoughts of the unbreakable vow at the back of her mind, so she would not speak of it thoughtlessly but she knew that she had to look into it, now more than ever. The dark magic part had not truly shocked her; ever since she had seen what he had done with that spider, back in Hogwarts, a long time ago, she had known that he had a proclivity for Dark Arts.

But he was not beyond hope. He never would be as far as Minerva was concerned.

He had a hidden agenda, of course. Well, she did now, too.

Then, allowing herself a bit of fun, she stepped back from the kiss suddenly and Tom nearly lost his balance.

Laughing freely, she ran ahead a few metres and stopped at a street lamp on the other side of the bridge, twirling around it, ignoring the looks of passersby.

Tom stood there for a moment; bewildered and unmoving, staring at her. Then, with some of his old cheek back, he hurried after her with long strides, easily catching up to her.

"You know," he said, smirking, "you said I was looking peaky earlier today. How about you give me one of your fabulous head massages? It would really do me good and I am sure would help some against that peaky look."

Sighing, Minerva returned one of her favourite phrases that she often had to use when dealing with Tom, but she couldn't help a small smile, a genuine one this time: "You are unbelievable."

* * *

**Whitechapel, London, August 31st, 1943**

Tom was due to depart to Hogwarts on the next day and they had decided to spend this day in a slow and lazy manner.

"When I was younger," Tom remarked, lying across Minerva's narrow bed, his head in her lap, while she was absent-mindedly running a finger through his hair, which he quite enjoyed, "I would have never been allowed to be so idle. The Matron had always something for us to do."

When she didn't reply and continued reading her book in an immersed manner, Tom craned his neck to read the title of the leather-bound volume in her hands.

"Selected poems of William Blake? What is it with all of you and William Blake?"He wondered, but a smile was trying to break through. "Dolohov was just reading some of his works as well."

"I adore his poems," Minerva eventually replied dreamily. The sun danced in wide shafts through the room, the rainy weather having finally cleared, and painted dust clouds in the air.

"Read one of his poems to me," Tom requested softly and she complied.

_"To see a world in a grain of sand,_

_And a heaven in a wild flower,_

_Hold infinity in the palm of your hand,_

_And eternity in an hour…"_

Tom was quite for long minutes. Then he said contemplatively: "An eternal moment and seeing heaven on earth. Those are quite wonderful ideals, yet they are unreachable, are they not? Human nature is designed so that it will always destroy those moments. The world is merciless and humans are merciless, too."

He was silent for long minutes and then added quietly: "In order to prevail in a world such as ours, I presume you have to be the most merciless one of all."

* * *

**Department of Mysteries, Ministry of Magic, September 1st, 1943**

"Well, don't just stand there! This is not a circus parade! Here, these files have to be put in alphabetical order according to the magical diseases of the listed…and while you are at it, you can fill out this form and this form, and oh, these ones as well…"

The speaker was a small Irishwoman with flaming red hair tied back into a strict knot, a no-nonsense white blouse and a plaited grey skirt that swayed energetically with each step she took. Her name was Sinead Margaret Keller and she was Minerva's new superior at the Department of Mysteries. Minerva could only stand there and gape helplessly after Miss Keller's rant. Her look wandered to the pile of files she now held in her arms and back Miss Keller's retreating back.

_What a welcome_, she thought. No-one except for maybe her mother had used that tone of voice with her before.

While she was still thinking about the best way to go about this and with which of those three-thousand files she should start, a broad-shouldered young man came and started wordlessly to take some of her files out of her arms. On her left side, a middle-aged brown-haired woman did the same.

"Excuse me," Minerva called, once she had gathered herself. "Umm, those are mine."

The woman gave her a surprisingly gentle smile that did not seem to sit well with her rather stern features. "Don't worry, dear. It's your first day here and this is a workplace, not a prison."

"Aye, she's right," the young man, who was maybe 25 years old, chimed in and to her delight Minerva recognised him to be a fellow Scot. "The boss likes to overdo it sometimes."

He winked at her cheekily, before offering a calloused hand. "Eugene Akins, at your service. Welcome to our corner of the world."

"A warm welcome from me as well," the woman from before joined in and shook Minerva's hand firmly. "Emmeline Walker. Now," she continued and Minerva knew that her impression of Emmeline Walker being a rather stern person had been right, "we should continue working. Miss Keller asked us to split up today. Eugene, you are going to show Minerva around, while I work on these files." Her look turned stern. "And on yours from last week, too, Eugene. Don't take this for granted."

"Aye, ma'am;" Eugene said obediently, but his eyes were twinkling mischievously and a small smile was curling the edges of Emmeline's mouth as well.

The smile slowly faded from his face as he turned to Minerva. "Alright," he said, seriousness returning to his voice. "This is where you and I will be working." He indicated a rather wide desk at one of the windows. The room they were in was quite spacious, with a wooden floor and satin yellow curtains. One half of the desk was empty, while the other was quite cluttered. Following her look, Eugene smiled sheepishly, exposing deep dimples and laugh crinkles around his eyes. "Yes, well. I was just getting around to tidying up."

"You are always getting around to doing things, Eugene," a voice interrupted and Minerva turned to see a petite woman with a dark braid, whose prettiness was marred by the scowl she wore.

"Yes," Eugene forced out between clenched teeth, "thank you, Mable."

Mable raised an eyebrow and turned to Minerva. "Welcome," she said simply. "I am Mable. I hope you find your way around in the company of that imbecile there."

"Thank you for welcome," Minerva returned cautiously and the other woman nodded tight-lipped at her, before turning back to walk over to Emmeline on the other side of the room.

Eugene sighed. "Well, I see that you know Mable now. She works in a related department to ours, but they work closely with us, which is why she's often here."

He smiled once more. "But you aren't going to be here for long. Trust me; I recognise talent when I see it. Miss Keller's been talking about you and your grades nonstop. I am sure you will soon be where we are all want to be. This here, "he indicated the room with a wide wave of his hand, "our department, Mabel's department, it's all about paperwork and at the most, maybe inventing a small household spell. But the real Department of Mysteries lies behind this door."

Turning around, Minerva became aware of a huge door made of a translucent material. Still, even though it was supposed to be translucent, she could not see through it, and she abandoned that train of thought quickly before it made her head hurt. Department of Mysteries was really an apt name!

"Well," Eugene said with a superior smile, "you need to have a key, of course, which you will get after you have been working here for a few months." He produced an old-fashioned key and proceeded to unlock the door. Nothing happened and his smile turned slightly sheepish.

"Really, Eugene," a voice that Minerva recognised as Mabel's deceptively dulcet tones said snidely behind them, "I would have thought you had been at the secretary's in order to have the key charm prolonged, but I see that you haven't."

Eugene turned around to Mabel, his face red with embarrassment and the dark eyes underneath the flaxen head of hair narrowed to slits. "I don't think-" he began, but Mabel cut him off.

"Take mine," she said shortly and pushed a key into his head.

"But you might get in trouble for this if someone wants to see it-" he replied after a moment, deflated and bewildered, as Minerva could clearly see from his expression.

"Really, Eugene," Mabel said and her harshness was back, hiding the softness from a few moments ago, so that Minerva was unsure whether she had been imagining it. "You should take better care of your things. I am going to go to the secretary's to do this for you. Grow up sometime."

With that she left. Annoyance back, Eugene turned to the door once more. "One might think," he growled, "she had a momentary lapse, but no, she's never going to change."

* * *

Minerva wisely remained silent and lifted her skirts over the doorstep, as Eugene opened the heavy door, which had out of the sudden turned from glass to oak in Minerva's vision. She had taken out her best skirt and blouse for this day. They had been quite expensive at Madam Malkin's and Minerva took care not to spoil them on her first day.

She forgot her thoughts about the skirt a moment later though, as the oak door swung softly shut behind them and she found herself in a gargantuan hall.

Rows and rows, filled with books- when Minerva leaned back to gate at them they seemed to reach on endlessly into the dusty ceiling. Grey-robed wizards were precariously balancing on rickety enormous ladders. Minerva had never seen such huge ladders before, not even in Hogwarts's extensive library, which, in comparison to this one, paled.

"I thought Hogwarts' library was vast," she commented finally.

Eugene's eyes twinkled. "Ah, make no mistake. Hogwarts has, over the centuries, collected a good few books that this library lacks, but all requests for copies have been denied by the school. It's quite a dispute between the Ministry and Hogwarts."

"Really?" Minerva mumbled and followed Eugene as he indicated different topic areas in the gargantuan library, the Halls of Learning, as he had called it. "This is all you are going to see today," he finally said, hoarse from having been explaining non-stop, "but once you get the clearance I shall show you all the other departments we are allowed to look at."

A small, separate area at the back proved to be a vast collection of references and Eugene's brown eyes sparkled as he led her towards it: "This, Minerva, is every academic's dream."

The first thing Minerva saw of that collection of references though was a huge luminous white orb that hung in the air. Wizards were gathered all around it and looking down at the floor Minerva found that they were standing on designated spots around the orb labelled one to ten in intricate lettering.

"The orb is compromised of all books you saw back in the Halls of Learning. Except for some of those people, who hate all kinds of progress, most prefer to use this collection of references. All the knowledge in them has been transformed into-"

"Elemental transfiguration;" Minerva breathed, awed, and stepped closer to the orb, interrupting him. Eugene looked first put out but then smiled at her enthusiasm.

"But they'd have to transplant the written words into abstract units of meaning. This is elemental transfiguration at its best! It's amazing." Turning back to Eugene, she wondered: "But how do you use it?"

Eugene motioned her to follow him and they stood in line on position one behind a thin young man.

"Do the numbers mean anything?"

"No," Eugene replied with a smile, "they are just meant to discipline this unruly bunch and see to it that they actually form queues."

"Oy!" he then said loudly, tapping the wizard in front of them on the shoulder. "Finished yet, mate?"

The wizard turned around in annoyance. He was a brown-haired young man with a serious expression and green eyes, but the serious expression soon faded as he recognised his interlocutor.

"Gene," he complained, "some of us are trying to work here."

Eugene grinned widely- a grin or a smile seemed to be his favoured expression anyway- and motioned to Minerva. "Minerva, may I introduce Florentin Yaxley to you? Florentin, this is Minerva McGonagall."

"McGonagall?" Florentin mused and his expression lit up. "Oh yes! You refused my cousin's hand in marriage, didn't you?" Minerva thought of William Yaxley, who her mother had wanted to see her married too, and her expression must have shown disdain, because Florentin smiled reassuringly.

"Oh, that's no insult to me. He looks at the old pureblood ideals in a wholly wrong manner. Some of those principles are meant to be held high, no doubt"- and he didn't say that in a conceited manner, but rather in a contemplative one- "but not the ones that harm others. Anyway, it is a pleasure to meet you."

Minerva shook his hand, actually glad to meet a nice enough representative of the Yaxley clan- it was curious to see that nice Yaxleys existed at all.

"So what do you call this thing?" she asked, making an effort to break the ice. "I mean, isn't vast collection of references a bit of a mouthful to say all the time?"

It had been the right remark, because Florentin broke into a full grin and Eugene beamed at his friend.

"It's called-" Eugene began in a very important, blasé kind of voice.

They made a dramatic pause and Minerva tried hard not to laugh.

"-the orb," Florentin finally finished in a very dead-pan kind of voice.

"The orb?" Minerva repeated sceptically.

"Creative, no?" Eugene amended and the three of them started to laugh, much to the annoyance of the researching wizards around them.

The three of them exchanged some other playful quips, before Florentin left. Eugene stepped forward and touched the orb with his wand. "You have to think of what you want to know," he commented. "You can find out nearly everything here."  
"And you don't need a key card?"

Eugene shook his head. "No, you saw the fuss at the entrance earlier. D'you honestly think they want a repeat of that here? They are no security freaks. Once you are inside, they think that your clearance is alright enough. It's hard enough to get inside the Department itself, anyway. No, to make it short- a wand is enough for this one here."

"Now what do we look up….Ah yes!" A broad grin broke out on his face, showing his dimples. "This is my favourite. I found it by accident once."

He took her hand and before Minerva could ask what he was doing, a voice whispered in her head. Startled, she realised that it made sense- in order not to disturb the other wizards; the orb fed the information directly in their brains.

"Wolpertinger," a voice with a faint German accent stated neutrally. "Wolpertingers are fabulous creatures from the German region of Bavaria. They are said to have various body parts of various animals. Sometimes they are portrayed as having a stag's antlers and an owl's wings, the body of a hare and the head of a beaver, but that's just one possible interpretation. Their origin is unclear, though some say they were first invented by Bavarians in order to shock gullible tourists…"

Minerva laughed once the voice had ended, once again catching the eye of the other wizards around her.

"Amazing, no?" Eugene smirked. "I love this entry."

"Now come on…there is still something I want to show you…" He led her away, a hand on the small of her back.

Had they turned back, they would have seen Mabel, who stood there and watched them with a distant expression on her face. It almost looked like sadness.

Minerva did not look back though- instead she could not shake off one thought: If this orb held such a vast collection of references, wouldn't she be able to find some information on unbreakable vows that she could only find here? She could not wait a few months though, it was far too urgent- but- and she hated the thought- if Eugene was as careless with his things as she had been led to believe, maybe she could take his keycard. She needed to find out what Tom was up to quickly.

_Hard times forge hard iron_, her mother had always said, and surprisingly enough, for one, Minerva was inclined to agree with her.

* * *

**Annotations:**

1._ Wolpertingers_ really do exist in Bavarian folklore and I am happy to share them with you :-) I'd be surprised if you had heard of them already, as even most Germans outside the South of Germany haven't heard of them.

2. The so-called "Blackout" was introduced to Britain in 1939 and was enforced in varying degrees of strictness until the end of the war.


	30. 1943 Part IX

_Hello_ _everyone! I know I haven't updated in ages, sorry! But I moved to China for ten months and it's been hectic and different and I haven't had the chance to think properly, let alone write in months...so I hope you can understand that :) I haven't forgotten about you or this story though and I promise to continue writing and updating. Thank you for all your lovely reviews,** iviscrit, ee hyuk , Sara, Lord Toewart, Sariniste, Sherbet, Dresden Blue, Kali98**! I love getting them and I do hope this latest update lives up to your expectations! _**  
**

_Best wishes from China,  
_

_Sachita ;-)  
_

* * *

**Chapter 29  
**

**London, December 1943**

The days kept dragging on in an endless loop. Grey mornings blurred into grey middays and grey middays blended seamlessly on into grey afternoons. The evenings were not grey, but they were black and they were the worst. Minerva sat inside for long hours, listening to the Muggle songs from her small radio that were only sometimes intercepted with static.

Ever since he had left her in September, Tom had not written to her save for telling her in one sentence, that he had arrived back at Hogwarts. Poppy she heard only sporadically from and in her letters her friend described Antonin as distant and Tom as completely unreachable, even for Antonin, or so it seemed.

Having written letter after letter to Tom without getting a reply, Minerva one day...just gave up writing letters and tried to turn to other things.

Sometimes she worked on research papers for work, but most days she lacked even the energy to do that. Instead she would stare at the peculiar swirl patterns on the sombre grey surface of her kitchen table and pretend that she wasn't waiting for an owl to peck against her tarpaulin covered window panes. The Muggle songs in her radio were mostly about love and hope and peace, very few of them were truly sad, and Minerva figured that it was because they did not want to decrease people's moral any more than it already was.

At work, her co-workers began to notice her moody disposition if only because Minerva could not bring herself to keep up pretenses all the time. Emmeline wordlessly took over some of Minerva's chores one day, yet told her strictly that this was a one-time-thing only. Eugene tried to cheer her up with a few upbeat jokes, but it soon became clear that Minerva was unresponsive to them, and so he left with a last insecure glance back at her. Mabel mostly did not say anything, just like Miss Keller, but while the latter was content when Minerva did her work conscientiously, the former started watching her carefully.

The only thing that Minerva truly could pursue was the resolution to find out more about the nature of Unbreakable Vows.

The moment came sooner than she could have anticipated and she found Eugene's keycard lying abandoned on the table after work. Eugene was finished for the day and they all had gone home. Minerva sometimes lingered for a few moments and her colleagues respected that because they knew that she liked to use the quiet hours in the evening to catch up on some work. In fact Minerva liked to listen to the old wooden structure of the building creaking in the silent hours of dusk and she liked to watch twilight falling over the city of London. Their office was on the first floor and had a door leading to a balcony that provided an excellent panorama of London.

Now that winter had come, Minerva usually stood there wrapped up in her scarfs and warm mittens, gazing at the black mass that was London in the nights. The blackout was still going on full force and so not even official buildings had lights on in the night. The streets were rather quiet as well, even around the Department of Mysteries which was rather conveniently located nearby the hustle and bustle of Covent Garden. But pubs closed early and with the threat of bombs and blood hanging over them, most people were sombrely-mooded and rarely in a good cheer. That night London was quieter than usual. Minerva shivered and drew her scarf tighter around her neck, resting her gloves-clad hands on the freezing metallic surface of the balcony's railing. Craning her neck, she could see thousands and thousands of tiny stars scattered over the skies. That was the only advantage London's blackout brought with it. Normally the city lights served to veil the starry night sky quite well, much to Minerva's chagrin, who had after all grown up beneath a very blanket of diamonds, all seen lying among the velvety greens of Scotland's Highlands.

Tom had once told her that summer nights in the heart of the city had truly been something else before the war had come and no shadow had been on his face then: no, his eyes had even glowed happily as he had described all the wonders of summer London at night to Minerva. She recalled that with a pang, standing on the balcony that night, and noticed angrily that her eyes were beginning to sting.

Hurriedly, she decided to finish her essay and go home for the night, although the thought of her dreary and quiet flat made her shudder. She imagined Tom's arms around her for a moment and the sting of her eyes became worse when she realised that she was still standing alone and freezing on a balcony in London and Tom was far away. He still had not written and that bothered her more than anything else. It should not, she knew that, and she liked to pretend, sometimes even to herself, that it didn't matter at all to her. Yet it did matter, more than she could have said. Missing Tom was a horrible feeling; the mornings in this cold season seemed that much colder; the outside that much drearier; the people that much duller. Sometimes she felt like curling up beneath her blankets in her bed and never getting up again, just letting the days pass her by in a dreary haze.

Deciding that dwelling on those thoughts did not help a bit, Minerva walked resolutely inside on to her desk. That was finally when she saw Eugene's keycard lying thoughtlessly in the middle of the table. It was gleaming in the moonlight that was falling into their office room in wide shafts from in-between the yellow curtains. Temptation crawled up Minerva's spine and nearly made her choke. How could she have ever resisted such an opportunity? With all that was going wrong these days, the sight of the card made her smile.

She hesitated only for the split of a second before her fingers closed around the hard wooden shape of the card. It was magically enhanced to give off warmth in cold seasons and for some reason the sudden burst of warmth made her guilty feelings come to the forefront. Still, she reasoned, it was not as if she was doing anything bad. Although she possessed a card, most rooms that were accessible to Eugene remained closed to her still. An inner voice warned her, that she would be able to do this legally as soon as she got her clearance, but she shushed it quickly. She could not, would not wait for so long.

The thing was, that the thought of discovering what Tom's Unbreakable Vow had implicated was the only thing that kept her up and running at the moment. In a twisted way she thought that it would maybe tell her why he was treating her to that long time of silence at the moment.

Yes, she, the upright and principled Minerva McGonagall, was slowly crumbling at the edges, all because of one man. Love, love, what was love, she thought, suddenly angry, as stubborn tears pricked again at the edges of her eyes. Loving meant long, painful nights spent listening in the cold and in the darkness for an owl that never came. Love was being addicted to one of his gentle touches, a warm look, a kind word even. She was sick of love, when love meant that she was running against all that her own principles and morales usually would have her do. Still...when she moved her hand forward to return the wooden card to Eugene's working place, she could not do so.

The reason was simple: She was too weak. Too weak to wait those few weeks longer when she would get clearance, too weak to put the card back and too weak to adhere to her own principles. It was not as if it was a bad thing to do anyway. All she would do was to look at an entry in an encyclopedia, it was not as if she was using his card to break in _the Globe _– that part of the Department that even Miss Keller talked about in hushed tones. Minerva, a trainee in her first month, had only heard rumours of what it entailed, but part of her ambitious nature wanted to work there. It was said that they experimented with time and death itself in there.

It was that ambition, pressed down by the weight of her grief and apathy, that decided to make itself known and made her move towards Eugene's desk once more.

Yet...she longingly glanced at the card, and the longer she looked at its rectangular shape, felt as if she was drowning in her own indecision.

For some reason the card seemed to symbolise Tom, the man she loved, the man she yearned for, the man who made her disgustingly weak.

Leaving the card on Eugene's desk would mean to free herself from the sway he held over her, would mean a decision for all that encompassed Minerva McGonagall.

Later she was surprised how quickly she dismissed what was essentially herself and walked on to the now familiar translucent door that was not translucent at all. The thing which later shocked her was the ease with which she had done it; the ease with which she had stolen another's property and decided against her own principles, the ease with which she disregarded everything else only to have him. Tom.

But that did not occur to her in that moment, for her heart was beating to her throat in spite of her Gryffindor bravery. There was a thin line between courage and foolishness and Minerva knew of that.

The wooden planks of the old library, so silent and serene in that December night, made odd sounds as they connected with her heels. Minerva cursed that she had chosen to wear them on that day and held her breath. The dusty volumes on the shelves, mere shapes in the twilight, seemed threatening and alive in an odd way.

It was cold. The Department's Library was a state building after all and they had decided to save on warmth in the nights as some old book-philantropic wizards had pointed out, that this would only damage the books. Plus, they liked to save on magically induced heat wherever they could anyway; stating that it only took a large amount of magical energy, producing which would drain the individual and as such rob said individual of his ability to prove valuable to the government in another fashion yada yada. Emmeline had once said dismissively that the Department could as well have put some long-lasting self-charms on the rooms, but they had so far been too lazy to fit protection charms to all the volumes.

All this was running through Minerva's head when she finally reached the Orb.

* * *

With a slight intake of breath she fitted Eugene's card to a slot in the ground.

"Password," a voice with a very posh accent stated neutrally.

"Oh dear," was all that passed Minerva's lips in that moment and she cursed herself; of course there was a password – how could she have forgotten?

"Your answer is not correct," the voice replied monotonously. "You have one choice left until the card gets blocked and the department security is alerted."

_Bloody! _Minerva's head was full of swear words, some so Scottish in their way that no Englishman would have understood her, which was maybe not a bad thing.

Squeezing her eyes shut, she tried to remember what it was that Eugene had said last time they had been at the orb. Seeing that she had talked to Florentin, she had not paid attention...but he had mumbled a sentence, hadn't he?

Florentin had just left and Eugene had mumbled, yes, what had he said...

_September 1st, 1943_

_Minerva, a slight smile on her lips, was just watching Florentin's broad back as he walked away, marvelling at having met an affable Yaxley, when Eugene mumbled:_

"_Sometimes I really hate... **Mabel**." _

And had pronounced that last word like a sigh. Mabel! Mabel. It had to be.

Part of her marvelled at that, wondered about it in face of the hateful relationship her two co-workers shared, but the other, larger, more impatient part, easily shoved that aside.

"Mabel..." she mumbled, trying to adopt the same breathy whisper Eugene had used.

The orb lit up.

Skimming to the Unbreakable Vow was easier than imagined. Minerva kept her wand glued to the orb, listening to the voice that oddly enough in that night had a faint Chinese accent.

First the voice kept going on about the origins of the spell and, other than there being roots in the Latin and Germanic languages, it told Minerva nothing. When it skipped to the part of how the spell could be applied, she listened avidly._  
_

_Known Usages_

_Famous spell researchers and the National Magical Etymology Society (NMES) are divided about whether the spell is of old Germanic origin or has been used beforehand in the Far East, namely the area around the Yellow River __黄河，__in the mainland of China, often known as the „cradle of Chinese civilisation". But the claims of the spell originating in China rely as their primary source on a monograph, which disappeared around the time of Edmond Charles Goodwill's death ( Minister of Magic from 1870-1880, famous member of the Department of International Affairs, b. 1820 in Chorley, Lancastershire, d. 1906 in Canton, China). The book had close ties to the legendary __易经 __, the Book of Changes, and was reputedly known as__大志 __, sometimes translated as "Great Determination". However, Mister Goodwill was the only who has claimed that the book supposedly not only held information about the spell originating in China, but also about there being a way to change the spell's intention itself. Yet the book and Mister's Goodwill's notes have been irretrievable after his death. They are rumoured to have been sighted in New York, however, because it was the last place where Mister Goodwill has been residing before leaving hurriedly in early 1906 to China, where he also died in December. The reasons for his hurried departure are not known, however. Even close friends and confidantes..._

* * *

"I trust you are researching something very fascinating in the middle of the night, Miss McGonagall," a voice stated suddenly very close to Minerva's ear, and she spun around, forcefully withdrawing her wand from the orb and pointing it at none else than Professor Dumbledore, who regarded her calmly from behind his half-moon spectacles.

"Pr-Professor Dumbledore," she stammered.

Nodding to her as if this was a normal occurence and a normal place to meet one's former students, her old Professor rounded the Orb, his face serene.

"A fascinating way of research, is it not?" he remarked placidly. "A lot of my contemporaries prefer the feel of parchment between their fingers and feel quite strongly about this new charms allowing you to listen to rather than to read the information, but I have always welcomed innovation."

Shivering from shock- he could intimidate her like no one else- Minerva regarded him with wide eyes. His long robes were of a pale silver colour on that night and they seemed to mirror a moonless sky in the way they gleamed in the room's twilight.

Professor Dumbledore smiled brilliantly at her, which only served to scare her more. "Why would you be scared when you are researching something doubtlessly of great importance to you, seeing that you do so in the middle of the night?" he asked. "I have always welcomed thirst for knowledge."

"But I-" Minerva began and, deciding that telling the entire truth was always the best option, no matter what her inner Tom voice said to that, "I took a colleague's keycard."

She held it out to her Professor, abruptly making the shimmering orb vanish as she pulled it out of the slot.

He regarded her calmly. "I have always trusted you, Minerva," was all he said and for some unsettling reason it felt to her as if there was a sense of warning hidden in his words. "I trust you will never disappoint me."

"No," she forced out, her mouth suddenly dry.

He smiled at her and abruptly the slightly threatening atmosphere had vanished, his blue eyes twinkled. "Then I trust you will meet me next Sunday at eight in _The Three Golden Foxes _in London. It's a Pub near Old Spitalfields Market, I trust you will find it on your own. There is something I have to tell you." A pause, then he added: "I trust you will not tell Mister Riddle about this. If lots of people know about something it can be so cumbersome, my dear, I trust you understand that."

He turned to go.

"Professor!" Minerva cried weakly and when he turned around said: "How did you know where to look for me? Are you going to report me?"

Professor Dumbledore's maddening calm smile did not waver. "What should I report you for?" he asked politely. "For wanting to gain knowledge?"

Almost as an afterthought, when he had nearly disappeared in the gloom of the library, he worded slowly: "I knew Edmond Goodwill and he was a good man. He was not sick at the end of his life. That is what they told me at the New York State Library, where he used to spend a lot of time. He would have lived a long life. He loved China like no other country and knew the ways of that land."

"What are you saying, Professor?" she asked, but only silence replied her.

Severely shaken, Minerva returned to her apartment in that cold London December night. Why had Professor Dumbledore come to her in the middle of the night? How had he known that she would be researching at the orb? How had he known what she had been researching? That invitation to the pub was not really an invitation and she knew that...and she knew him better than to assume he had to use petty means like telling Miss Keller about her nightly ventures in order to make her do something for him...but why had he come to her then in the middle of the night? He might as well have sent her an owl to invite her to that pub. It was almost like he wanted to warn her about something...and as if he knew that she had researched that spell because of Tom. As if he had exactly been waiting for this moment, also to tell her about Goodwill. As if he wanted to say more than he actually had said.

It all made her head hurt and did not cheer her up in the slightest. Noting glumly that neither Poppy nor, God beware, Tom had written, she slowly let herself into her flat, shrugged off her clothes and more or less fell asleep instantly. However, her sleep was of a fevered and anxious nature and she woke up many times.

* * *

The first knock on her door at around 3 am in the morning made her sit upright in bed and listen fervently into the darkness. Rain was pounding heavily on her window panes and the only sounds in the room were her quick breaths. Carefully, her heart beating wildly against her ribcage, she listened. There was nothing. Her breaths formed white clouds in the air and Minerva thought distractedly about the heating charm she had put on herself; it had definitely come to good use. Just as she wanted to sink back into her bare white sheets and try to go back to sleep, a second knock made her tired eyes open again. Nimbly she fished for the wand lying on the nightstand and suppressed the sudden onslaught of fear that had her thinking thoughts of Grindelwald or muggle gunfire tearing through the night.

"Lumos." The sound of her own voice made her shiver and she held her breath when she walked bare feet to the door.

Heart pounding like a whirlwind, she carefully posed herself next to the entrance, just as a male voice hoarsely murmured: "Alohomora."

"Stupefy!" she yelled, just as a dark shape fell through the door frame, the candlelight flickering in the hallway giving only a vague impression of a human figure. "Protego" a cracked voice half-shouted in reply. Something about the voice screamed familiarity. Cautious, Minerva raised her wand and the blueish light formed shadows on the gaunt face of none other than James. James, a fellow Gryffindor, James, the jokester, James, who looked tired beyond belief and more like a lost little boy as he stared into her light with bloodshot eyes.

For a moment none of them moved. Then James started to sway dangerously on the spot and Minerva pocketed her wand, cursing her long white nightdress when it caused her to stumble, and supported him. "Minerva," he sighed against her hair, unable to keep himself from sinking forward. "I made it."

Urgently she grabbed his upper arms. "Is there someone behind you? Following you? James? James!" His eyes had started to close. "No," he muttered blearily, when she shook him once more, his words slurring together quite badly, "No, I don't think so."

Stumbling, they made their way over to Minerva's kitchen table and she sat him down on the chair in the corner.

"What happened?" she asked.

"I-" James started, muttering something, sighing, then attempting to speak once more. "I ran."

"From whom?"

"The- the army- I- I ran- I don't-" he coughed, "I don't want to die somewhere in a ditch in Germany."

Minerva held his arms tightly as she began to comprehend what was going on. As understanding dawned on her, she still kept her hands lying on his arms, undecided. He smelled of stale water, sweat and exhaustion and his freckles stood out starkly against the pallor of his skin. Normally,he had dark brown hair, but in that moment it was of a darker colour and hung sweat-soaked and tangled over his forehead. Impulsively, she reached out and brushed it away, while he leaned into her touch reflexively, closing his eyes in exhaustion.

The sounds of a few cars clattering over the cobblestones outside finally made Minerva come back to her senses.

"The Army?"she asked carefully. He made a vague head movement vaguely resembling a nod. "Come along then," Minerva muttered, the wild beating of her heart starting to return to a normal rhythm as she directed him to the bathroom and laid out a set of Tom's spare clothes for him. Her fingers brushed hesitatingly over the stiff material of the trousers for the fraction of a second. She remembered Tom wearing only that very pair of trousers, sitting bare—chested in her window-frame for all the world to see, smirking at her raised eyebrow.

His smile had turned mischievous then when he had pointed out to her that her landlady would surely die of a heart attack, were she to see him sitting clad in that fashion in her window frame...Minera shook the memory off and deposited the clothes and a towel next to the sink.

* * *

Leaving James to his shower, she went outside and shivered suddenly.

It was cold and even the warm cotton material of her tartan-patterned frock did little to keep her warm. The minutes passed by quickly and James had finished soon, but he did little else than collapse headlong on Minerva's only couch standing underneath the window. His feet dangled over the edge, if only because he was too tall for her small furniture. She tugged the edge of the blanket over his feet and then sighed, straightening up and gazing down at him.

How had he come here? Why had he come to her out of all people? Why was all this happening now- first Professor's Dumbledore mysterious words in the library and now this?

But answers could wait. For now she could only think of how tired James looked. She felt very small and very much at a loss for what to do in that moment. Not a feeling she was accustomed to, not a feeling she liked, but James's face was so exhausted even in his sleep that all traces of the carefree youth she had known seemed to be gone.

She wished Tom were here. Or Andrew, her brave older brother, whom she had always been able to rely on when a dire situation had arisen.

Exhausted and at the end of her rope for that night, she padded back into her bedroom and over to a window, peeking out behind the tarpaulin. It was snowing and the crystals twirled and turned with beautiful, bizarre momentum in the air. Minerva released a deep breath and watched the condensation particles in the air. Somewhere, a church's bells sounded – one, two, three times- telling her it was way past bedtime. Gazing up, she shuddered in face of the waxy face of the moon and the few pale stars that gleamed weakly through the thin shroud of fog hanging over London. It would have been folly to deny that, as she gazed through the night in that moment, was not desperately wishing for an owl with a message from him, which never came.

* * *

The morning winter light spilled through the windows in pale blue shades. Minerva had removed the tarpaulin covers for the day, feeling that it was too depressing to just get by on electrical light. James had not stirred, but the soft morning light erased some of the worry lines on his face. From her position next to the hearth, where she was preparing pancakes - a luxury, for flour and eggs were hard to come by the Muggle way these days- James resembled the boy she had known a lot more than on the evening before.

Minerva herself felt a lot less insecure as well. Her hair was up in its usual bun and she was wearing a woollen grey skirt with a green sweater. A small smirk came onto her lips as she remembered a book she had read. It was by a German author named Gottfried Keller and it was about people's mannerisms and self-regard changing through simply wearing finer sets of clothes. She could appreciate the irony quite well, seeing that she felt a lot more self-confident in this set of clothes rather than the night's tartan frock.

Absorbed as she was, she did not notice James coming up to her from behind, and nearly screamed in surprise, when she became aware of his presence. He smiled uncertainly and his smile was frayed and worn like a paper bird that had been folded too often. Minerva's replying smile was reassuring and warm, and she saw with relief that some of the flickering nervousness in his eyes started to vanish. Nervousness and James Taylor did not fit well.

"It's a good thing you came here," she said good-naturedly to break the silence, "as I am about the only household in this district of London with pancakes."

James smiled, weakly, but it was a genuine smile at least.

They ate in silence, but halfway through the second pancake James asked, his voice cracking suspiciously: "What am I supposed to do?"

Minerva saw how his hand trembled even as he made a valiant effort to conceal his terror. She sought out his green eyes and looked at him reassuringly, although her reply was delivered in her usual brisk manner:

"Stay."

* * *

_tbc_

_**Annotation: **The Yijing _易经 belongs to the great Chinese classics, the so called -_jing_. It belongs to the original Five Classics of the Confucian Canon and is often translated as "The Book of Changes". It contains a divination system which was used in earlier times to foretell e.g. harvest times, good or bad fates and so on. Look it up, if you haven't read about it yet. It's an important part of Chinese philosophy and culture and well-worth knowing about. _  
_


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